I Didn't Want To

I didn’t want to write, but it’s still all I know how to do. I didn’t want to vanish, but it’s still the only thing that keeps me turning. All my days are the seventh, and all my desires are clouded. But nothing grows from this ground, nothing bleeds from this tree, no matter how much I cut it. The line ends, and the train moves on. The line ends, like the sentence and the word, but the train always moves on. I knock on painted doors and find dreams from another life still sleeping, in the cradle where I left them, a beautiful slumber in another life. I didn’t want to have to write to you, but the rain put out the fire, and only these words remain. No matter how much I place myself between the sword and existence, the dulled blade refuses to cut me. The line ends, and the train moves on. The line ends, and the train moves on.