“While all walks on, then all must be loved, for the matter of safety. By the genuine heart that never misguides, never missteps, comprehends purpose beneath its own weight, there is infinite pressure atop eternal light.”– Modern Romanticism
There are those, and those, alone, who fight within the darkness. Love is a grave, for them. Though, not so much due to love, though in their perception of it. Humans, as them, live for the wound, crawl to lick it clean, and it is that their sole way to stand is by the headstone. It is the universe that moves within them. It is the ocean atop their shoulders.
Their perception, of love, though it is a sign of their damage. Their trust, their human selves, and their eyes see the ruins. Their hands construct out of dust, to cement the fragments together with their blood.
Their wails, their torments, their miseries all flock together as forsaken birds with broken wings. All of no guidance, and yet, frequent peril.
Though, upon others, they’ll be warm. They’ll trust, though to bleed more for it, then to die for the preservation of another’s stream. They’ll feel what others sting for, and to that, they’ll die another day. Another day in the death of themselves, breaking in the same ruins they had built. Bleeding with the same droplets of dew that did not wash them. To them, love is an injury. Trust, however, is a life sentence.
Trusting their broken reflection, while loving another’s perfection. The former leaves them open, while the latter blankets another closed.