It's hard in the dark.

Raindrops turn to languages far from you.
Sunken ships under the dock, unseen to anyone. Lost.
Uncomfortable company. Community far.
Statistic warm, the needles fresh. Doused in deep cigarettes.
A page of plain painlessness fraying from her worn out dress.
Rejoicing in the juice from the vine traps you in internal time.
Ravens watch, rip down the moon gown. The silent morgue man burns the place down.
Books are seen, but the pages were ripped clean. Battered beach bile, bilious for a while.
Peak hour bathysphere, par four in a cave. Unable to sit straight while you're taught to behave.
Lick your lips to taste the torture, like the tormented turtle in need of water.
A blanket punch knocks the best of it back. Subsides to a ripple, no longer a splash.
It still spews out storms of apathetic angst, '...and it will all be better!', says the man from the bank.
So we stray away from the cracks in the perfect path, but it's hard in the dark.
It's hard in the dark.
This deconstructive ecstasy, backwards bliss, euphoric fallacy releases you into its cage. Free with the prisoners quickly dieing of old age.
The undercurrent crystal draws you and shatters all light before you.