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Paint your eyes red.Fold broken hands,praying to what is dead. Speak in gentle whispers,encasing your soul in a frozen tearheld back for many years. Love blooms on your back,with the rain, the dewfinding meaning in nothing new. Cry for departure,for the ships carrying your earthto bring you home, to birth. What time is love?Which day…
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Less to be, made to beabsent, apart from theeinside the wandering puddle.Straying too farbeyond the beating tunnelwith shadows, around. To the sun, to the eyethat was never meant to crywhile death created a nest,with babes against the breastteeming for the afterlife. The cradle, the fragile terrorsa reflection wreaks.The sun bent its touchto warm the coldest…
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“Telling a story, especially of another person’s life, is always fiction. It is when that story has been written for togetherness’s sake. When truth is not told, in that story, the deception in its stead will bring unity if only as a short-term distraction. A fiction tale is something that never occurred, and the more…
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Each whisperin a fading windbrings the stars closer,closes the scarsthat were never there. Wade to me in puddlesfrom imagined tears.Winter never warmed you,when it disillusioned us. Long arms carry you throughstoried storms, as I close the pageswith the grasp for a life,curving in the rivers. You are drawn in elegance,with beauty to your fear,among your…
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Retreating apart frombare sentences revealed in the sun.You grieved even inthe love we were buried, within. For orchids, we cross,as in sadness, we depart,having left golden glimpsesfor something among sentences. Bare words, abandoned in light,lowering eyes that see unity shattered.With grace, our sceneries mattereduntil turmoil had grown. Growing upon the next vine,all are always the…
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Straight line, barricadeon a path your eyes createwith enough to freeze for,with blankets of fleshbecoming raw beforethe moment of your death. Place love to the skies.Hold that smile, cover your crieswith the curtain around my form.In love, without being born,because God was a smile too manyto have, within grains of plenty. Soil stretches, along with…
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“What a person most expects is everything they shouldn’t. A gift can be expected, though only at the same level as offering a server a tip. It had been expected, that for the server’s excellent hospitality, they were given something for that reason. Although, what is a gift? What is ever defined as a true…
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You are the dust in my eyes,the water that never flowsuntil I let go. You were the shore of eternal grain.Countless, until you becamecaught in the eyethat leaks light. You were one beside the moon.You are none,as I follow gloom. Why has this mirror shattered? From white to the void,erased into the darkwith infinite flakes…
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“No one can regret to love. Because, to love wasn’t a choice. When we look back upon the first time we held a hand, can we analyze the circumstance? Can we ever come a conclusion or reason for that moment? Or is that merely us doubting what is has grown into something spectacular?” – Modern…
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“The machine is purely functional. A human, more than functional. Unlike the computer, human emotions represent our freedom. We cannot think, without feeling. We cannot be logical, without the direction that emotions are always expressed. With control over emotions, not the absence of them, this is what defines logic. Logic is not pure in simple…
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Synopsis: “Wound” takes place in a fictional town where its citizens have their bodies possessed by the spirits of the previous generation that lived here. None of the residents are able to heal from wounds, whether mental or physical. This is due to the concepts around the paranormal, that a ghost refuses to move on…
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Send wind to the torn waters.An ocean formed by summer,as love unbandages us. What breaks the skies to find us? Send letters as overturned leaves,leaking stones. We cried to find weight driftingin sudden rush. Winter was the deletion of our colors. Hold this promise, remember the vow.Repeat the famous wordsupon the waves. Arrest your eyes,…
Modern Romanticism 