the piles that piles on piles,
the ruler of the bile,
she sees and she knows,
she breathes and regrets it,
cuz the smell is so foul,
one might say vile,
one might see and know,
and regret purely the sight,
she piled the thoughts,
it can wait a little while,
a while a day a night,
an evening,
the piles can’t pile cuz they've piled too much,
is her reasoning,
but they piled and piled,
and pile they would,
the sky’ll reach miles,
and surely they could,
mountains of hope,
mountains rise slow,
she cries the rivers that flow through the most,
the rivers run dry,
finally she piled a pile a mile too much,
they fall down so silent except for a crush

piles

in a cold concrete room,
with four walls that stare coldly,
so icey in fact,
he asks death to embrace him so homely,
but the answers are few,
not as few as the degrees,
but few they are,
for death has not said a word,
death was nowhere near,
only the eyes of a stranger, 
the man could only fear,
no sign of any life,
only sight from the side,
or was it up or was it down? 
he could not decide,
these eyes, bloodshot,
open with intent,
intent the man could only assume would be the worst of offense,
hope i should say, but maybe hope was so lost,
i could not see,
for my eyes were glazed with frost

frost

he walked on tiles many,
but miles few,
streetlight after streetlight,
thoughts of afterthoughts,
a bad taste grew,
tree branches creep and hide the face of the moon,
but still shine on tiles many,
but miles few,
make sure the steps don't cross the lines,
or the lines steps across,
cuz the streetlights in the sky, they turn and they toss,
and buildings that smile,
with people that dont,
with winding vines of the streetlights,
their soul lost in the grow,
but the tiles are many,
so many they are,
the miles so few,
you’ve just met the wall,