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Her eyes Glaring with hope Across somewhere I find Ignition to a greater mile. She teaches me to use The file To saw my teeth to chew this moment, Not to dust, Though to shape something of worth. An attraction To sunrise, Is my fortunate beginning. Her life has been the rose. My world Once
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Her mind Resides In the green, upon my eyes. Her fields Flower With the dew, upon each leaf Crossing plains, Hovering upon mountain slopes, To drag back down The wilderness in the empty sounds. Her blood Is my course, My journey through my own veins. For my sails are tattered, Washed By the storm’s endurance.
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It is initial, that one will be in the stage of denial, while anger will accompany it, soon after. One, in denial, is frustrated that the matter took place, that the loss took place, as such anger will spark tears. One lashes out, because acceptance is so far away from the current tension. In recent
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“When one defends themselves, they believe themselves to not be at fault. When one does not see themselves at fault, they see others to be at fault. There is only the internal or the external. There is no third option, no middle-ground. There is only the one or the other. Therefore, a belief, or an
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“Count how many stars linger in the universe. Their endlessness is freedom. What humans want, are shackles. What humans want, is purpose. Purpose is the wall placed before the one who is free. We would reside in continued tedium, were freedom to be all to consume. Love is a shackle. Love is a confinement. Love
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What had been lifted,Is now fallenUpon the fields where there used to sprout yellow,And now only sprouts the red of shame.What was once golden in the light of companionshipIs now a feeble mess of disgrace. We had dancedBeneath the whip of survival.Sought to kiss, beyond the waves and the endless morrows.We had sailedUnder choirs that
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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
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She has controlled her beauty with evenness. Symmetry within every detail, and symmetry, especially among her smile. I have asked myself a question, if love would be the thing to hold her hand, or perhaps I have, as a flawed man, all the while. I speak these words to resonate myself with guilt. It is
Modern Romanticism 