My heart the stone of which has broken, it aches bleeding a fountain, and yet through it all I can only breathe, breathe your name and smell the salt from your leftover presence. It only fades slowly and yet increases in intensity, growing, coalescing, gaining, creating a stain in my lungs. The scratches which bled are slowly healing and yet still there, hopefully forever, always instilling a memory of where I was true and safe. Lifeforce flowing beneath the surface, shivering through in murky colors, grows more dim as each day passes yet lasting would be both a curse and a desire for memories which can only die without glory. Like fallen soldiers each day tells a twisted story of running and dirt, sweat and hiding, only to be left with nothing as the corpse grows colder and my fingers curl and stiffen around your still beating heart.
Run - that is what you are doing, and in such a way that is pathetic, Man that you wish you were. You are not, but a terrorized darkness, wallowing in the covert shadows and sipping amongst the scummy water banks. Your eyes which glimmer, so reflective, they hold a light in them which reminds me of gummy bears and love. Even so, the hand which I trusted so completely made me fear a lie, and now I worry of the gift it carried. Was it empty or no? Is the gift box holding within it a light or is there merely shadow? Does then the insanity cling to my mind or is it only hope that has twisted me thus? A dried flower still carries meaning, and even in the husk the intensity of feeling can be sloughed with faintest feather of touch. A home of the heart creates dust motes in the air as light filters through the highest window, and yet the motes dance - so carefree - as to make one appeased at their Fate despite the colder winds outside.
Alas, the twists that come from your Destiny, and curse and spit and hate upon those lies which bring about the deluge of tears. Bemoan this circumstance which rips back and forth, hithertofore, eating away at the crumbling edges of your soul. Ink spills running only downhill even as the rivers of blood run amok in the heat of your fever. Greatly cherished memories now curl with smoke and sting with the gall of acid due to your passion and heart which cherishes them nearly so much as I, the fool who loved the Damned and yet seeks to soothe your chafed soul. Seethe, begrudging those who make lies about the flood of tears.
The stench of the smoke is fouler than you would truly know, you uneducated and imaginative person. You say you know because you have seen but you have never felt the true sting of the Leviathan. The deep gashes occur twice, the blood of which flows with deuce of colors - deepest green the one which poisons - black the one which burns with hatred from desires. Loathe and bathe in that knowledge, that which you know is forsaken out of fear.
The sting of the liquid in your lungs as it drowns you is only ironic in the face of the nights that have lined thy path as gravestones. Ticking, grey, as lightning streaks overhead, and only silence and the green numbers of the clock are there as your saviors. Waking and wakeful your only company, the pain of which only you know, and their sympathies fall on cold ears as you lay dying with a vulture's mask covering your dry face. What, no tears? How could there not be?
But with each comes a price which is never paid.
Not for me. Not for me.
I am indebted yet have paid my price.
Keep this passion which cries for you, your heart soaked with the sadness that is unable to be wrung, yet with a tear in the creases the blood rushes forth, sinking into the vase of flowers. Why not? For roses of this color speak thy name so sweetly. The depth of which is only measured by drops of greater weight. A sly form of expression yet viewed through a sieve like a mirror, holds the weight of a pen and a moth.
The heart's commitment freezes as Time's crystal hand bursts, hold, hold, hold. A glint of red as it continually twists in your wounds, the sting is Just yet cruel.
Little girl who held a pledge shed what clothing she could yet bandages still wrapped her wounds. Merely torn coats she had wrapped herself, as the infection spreads. Cut. Cut and saw and tear. Tear the flesh with teeth which glimmer. Feel the morsel with jaw-like hands, clawing, bearing, crushing, eating.
The mirror is broken and half is slipped, a mere quarter inch distorts your vision. The sadness being you may never see past your stubborn desires to the gold within, melted, waiting.
Husk left by rotten seeds only moves in the wind, no motivation for itself, yet sentient as the mold grows on its side.
Ocean waves would tear you apart but your fear keeps you dead in the cave where you've hidden. Your knees tremble beneath your weight.
Don't move on, don't move past, you missed the one that could have lasted only to hurt yourself in misery for you know not how to be free. Cold Soul your warmth will only hurt you. But the gift box with a pearl will bring you back to harbor. Your sincerity irks me with your smoky facades. Silver serves you better than gold despite the brilliance of your eyes. You are too changeable to keep a promise, for once your opinion changes your words have no worth. Like platinum exposed to heat, your vows evaporate and what had great worth is now less than gravel.
Don't expose me with love, I'd rather hide in your banter and sickening sadness. Moons shine thrice yet the spade falls only once.
The whitest fish roves through bloody waters. There is only one jewel to save, yet even so your stubborn mercurial nature may cause you to be a Boy not a Man. Sea lions have more heart even if pricked by murderous crows, sucking away at the gel within their eyes.
Throw down the quill and raise your glass to the sun - the red sparks a new day and highlights the only word to fill your soul - yet as you squint to see the page ignites, losing forever your path to the secrets which you long for. Alas, the child who knew you only stifled with self-hatred as you blame that which ended before your consciousness was birthed. Foolish lies to soothe yourself like a bear spreading honey over bee stings.
The stars which were destroyed in past eons yet still burn brightly to be seen, are their feelings of no value once they cease to exist or when their light no longer travels into the depths of the Universe?
Chain which is soft, it binds so sweetly, yet I cannot remove it for fear of finality.
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