Like a weapon of words

Deserts of tiny verbs and subjectivist turned to objects after an ocean on dead poetry. Words, their meaning. The hurt, the blame, who is it to take.
Your words, where can I reply? Questions of your love, where is it now, are your eyes still looking over me?

Your weapon is your words and your bullets are how you say them, poetry can kill after eight at night, and it swallows your mind and rewrites the stories you have to face.

I stood there watching you shoot your best, I wonder how could you be so cold?

Question, where is your love now, is it still on me?
You closed the door after.

Wonder how can I now live when your away, where can I now close my nights and open my mornings, how can I put it? you energize me, you give me motives, you have it all. So guess I’m then lost without you and your mean words.

bullets fly through the air like in the second world war, first you make friends then side on opposite, attacks after attacks I still stood there wounded but brave and strong.

Question, what are you going to do? Obviously you can’t beat me, no weapons left on your side.
Door closes and I see the last drop of light that you took with you.

Is life worth living on an earth that has no light?
After number 8 comes death with nine lives, nine eyes, nine sides. a Rubik cube all mixed up.

nuclear.