December, Pt. 1

In practice no one believes we are just animals

More to a book than just a chapter

Even when we turn a new page

As in when we die we're just an object

Just a body to weather and decay

Yet living on forever in the remnants of age

A stone plaque engraved

Carrying the weight of memories that clawed on for decades

Though they may lose their edge, it was once a sharp blade

A collage, a killer instinct of blood stained sheets

Painted like a portrait, portrayed like a movie scene

Brighter than cotton candy stained sky