The Book of the Dead.

Paint your lips with my blood,
give you just a little piece of myself,
going on wandering these streets,
drawing your dreams into my mind,
saving your thoughts within my own body,
like little drops of alcohol,
the rain to this flower,
a ribbon to this one marked for death, like that tree in the corner.

A another sick dark summer,
remembering all the empty spaces you filled me up with,
while I was laying in the void,
I was nothing and everything ,
I was in nothing and became everything,
lips still bleeding,
skin thirsty for nothingness.

And here laids a nothing missing a void,
A voice of air to the wind of no reason,
A walking contradiction
made right,
but I will always be wrong.

Still there are pieces,
and all these streets unlived in,
with empty spaces and empty places.