VARIABLE PARADOX

I burn my tiny dancer in the spoon.
twirling, burning alive.
In the morning's torture light.
Left all promises back on the moon.
Wrapped in words of gold.
Laid to rest
inside  a garden of bones...
If your tongues not been removed
might you sing the way back to you.
Scream the way back to you.
If our hearts are still in tune
Perhaps I'll just
Murder my way into the past.
To begin again...
Or decide to never have an end
At
All.