Jibberish of the moment.

It's hard not to expect the cold when the air is still.
The silent music, the chemical reaction.
Not so stirring and ecstatic.
Chaotic sometimes.
The reach to the heart is infinite.
A journey for the ages, destined to persist.
Unto destination death.
Hopelessly a tragedy, ancient.
Stabbed stark red, tears bled dry rust.
Dirty and unforgiving darkness and silence.
We are all of these frightening clichés.
You are what the answers should be.
I am addicted to the wrong questions.
To thee, I awake in hope, however faux.