Pretend
I tried to hide it
the large stain
on our white linen,
so black
that it took on a Dreams shape.
One of pretending,
helpless when falling
past all madness
laughing insanely at the sharp edges.
Many hold out
in an attempt to catch you,
fingers like raw spaghetti
brittle, breaking
leaving only needles to hold in the past,
braving gazes of pity
along a forest of deceptive desires.
The stain, black as night
minus the stars to map our way,
through a sea called many things
deepest when we fail
finally settling comfortably near
Deaths front door.