beauty dies here: it slips from your fingers like silt as the sun slips beneath the distant horizon that you can run to but never truly touch. it wilts like the youthful flush in your cheeks as those rose colored days flicker in favor of an untimely and devastatingly human death. everything dies here, except for the distant rumbling of gears and tanks and guns and tears that stop sounding so distant when you listen closely. when i sit here on the rubble, i can hear the sl