and here we are
yet living
on this eve of lost idyll
i am no more able
to feel your touch
than sorrowed skies retreat
the passing hours
grow ever darker
my lair has turned to dust
unsettled
roaming on this plane
alone
in search of any senseless reason
the more i look
the more i find
my mind is but a distant ruin
littered with the consequence
of time’s relentless ire
as truths unravel
by its hands
extending far beyond
the grave
where now
not even death
can stand to save us
Max, or Not 
Wow
LikeLike
Great picture for the poem!
LikeLike
I love everything you write ❤️
LikeLike
It’s so hard to like this. But I always appreciate your poetic brilliance. <3
LikeLike
A grim scene you’d painted with your poeticism there…
LikeLike
Reblogged this on Secret First Draft: A Site of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and commented:
Max Meunier/Dissociative Void
LikeLike