by bjmuirhead

This is the step beyond which there is nothing. The unknown quanta of having been where there is nothing but remaindered flesh waiting to be burnt while memory hangs heads. A vacancy waiting to be and have not been face to face with impossible existence. This is the beyond within which no step is taken—it is not meant for you, who cannot translate life, whose steps falter, thinned by grief which judges life by the dead, littered in tears curved uglily on cheeks of long worn leather that no longer feels the puff of lover’s kiss.