Even though I walk...

Roaming, through the places you existed.
Light pieces of you, remaining to invade
my amnesia. I presume you knew I would walk
this trail. Did you leave a shard wittingly
to discompose this persuasive facade.

Echo's of you overprint my footsteps, each one
resounding death's bells, magnified for occasion.
Your laughter indicating something is wrong.
Of course, I knew it all along. You are dead.
Clarity can be found in the most artless of machination.

Revolting violence leaves a taste like metal
on my tongue. Walking where your blood poured,
images carved like graffiti in scarlet smears.
Each step taking me closer to the abhorrence
one black night when your form disappeared.

In sleep: Flying me to your corpse rigidly set
like stone in ice. Fastened together following
the invasion of science. Why do you cause me
to look upon your deadness every journey?
A cold cut anesthetized steeling through unfeeling.

I held you as a baby; little more than one myself.
I think I knew, thought I saw my baby brother pouring out
onto the pavement by a strangers blade. It's funny
how the dead tease us; walking us through spiral paths
tormenting, inviting precision and the erradication of doubt.