sweetnothings

The afternoon's in which I feel most love,

bring my night

nothing.

A null conscience, 

overcast

with Their self-destroying thoughts,

they try to cloud

my forgetful mind.

Midnight, slideshow pictures 

display on my

wall of imagination.

Voices chant a broken record, 

flowing the most-taken path in the valley.

Plants and parents decompose with

the time we call tomorrow

I am

left with nothing more

than a rotten persimmon

of a conscience.