All of my Friends r Dead

A flower, a bird, a story.

I did not have friends growing up. A lonely soul, trapped in a population of material, violence. I found connections, relationships with the only parts of the world that would bring me in to their home, the only parts of the world, that welcomed.
Things that one can give, without possession.
Growth, love, creation.

I had a flower, that grew.
For years, this rose sat in the sunlight that reflected around my room.
It was a vibration, a message, of something beautiful,
that will always be there, if nothing else is.
The rose always grew,
watered by waterfalls of knowledge,
bathed by the light of meditation,
absorbed by the soil of passion.

But on a late night, I came home.
The rose, had deceased.

I had a bird, I loved.
It's immense color expanded daily.
It's wings flapped in the air of spirit,
it latched itself, upon my shoulders,
that became immune to weight.
I fed this bird, all the beauty I knew to express.
Food of art, nutrition of effort,
water of importance,
treats, of material.
I cherished the bird,
a spark of hope,
the epitome of all things gorgeous,
and all mine.

Yet the bird, had passed.

I wrote a story, I created.
A story of adventure,
discovery.
Inked by tragedy, 
written by the pen of Biblical complexity.
Rage, fallen heroes, angelic voices,
singing to my paper.
Characters of striking images,
elements of something, 
more than science.

I came home, to a home burned.
My story, had disintegrated.

All that I love, has left me,
but become me.

The higher power, pushes me to the edge.
Please don't kill me, God,
I am my last love, no longer another to share this bed.
Please don't kill me, God,
All of my Friends R Dead.