The Witherer Poem by Inigo Rivera

The silver cord would complicate things too much,
'cause without the ribbon, a present’s just a box.
And without feelings, love’s just an abstract thought,
an image of what’d be right some other time and space back forward.

Bound myself to hell instead of heaven,
and drowned my night within the vertigo’s slur;
Can’t shout but breathe out
in exasperation
and never-ending waiting.
Don’t call my name,
I did already run out of it.
I won’t share a little bit,
won’t put it where it doesn't belong
or it doesn't want to stay.
It won’t linger much in those lips of yours
'cause, you see, I was never of your own,
'cause, you know, I had never wanted any name or title.
I kept it simple as I could.
I understood that light is for those with eyes,
love for those with hopes.
Knowledge for the dead ones.
And what’s to be expected of the spring,
only the waiting for the winter’s rage to come.
Only the blooming flowers whose pretty petals await to be carried away by the lusting Witherer.

Now, with this dying line I set this on fire,
never looking back to what’s been dismissed.
Goodbye lovely noise of amusement moving underneath my chest,
goodbye to the world I used to think I knew.