Anti Matter

It's anti matter.
this pattern was ill conceived.
The seeds of this synthetic piece
are here to cover up these jagged seams.
ragged dreams and plastered wings,
this scene isn't so seemingly giving.

When I pick a pedal point,
you pick a pasture.
And when I show the reds in my eyes
drop a line from the past here,
because we've sunk far too many battleships
to call this a game anymore.

There were drops of sentiment in your throat
when you spoke the truth,
Then again, there always has been.
I guess I was just one of those fucked up grooves in your vinyl
just another spinal tap to drink from.

We sought a grayer morning
fizzled moods soothed our wounds.
Our incandescence was a product of a hangover perspective,
dressed in electric essence, plagued by the national message
drift forward, do your best kid,
fall into the rest.

When the crystals of our conception
are bursting all around us,
catapulting shards of our existence like rain drops
I can spot the low roars and the curdled hums
curl up in the semblance of a shelter.

If it's anti matter we breathe,
then let us rip our bodies broken,
blackened with the charring.
Let the shock fall to nothing,
let the shattered nerve endings
create some distant noise in the evening.

I'm dreaming of a white November,
where I left you by the pacific.
I crack a little more at every second glance.