Monday, August 05, 2013

the loss and the secret love

she has the darkest lungs. the likes, that heaves breaths like the sound of swords into sheaths. she always carry the elated senses sixth, through the grit of her teeth. she has this air, that blithe like forest nymph, which no-one else carries.

she comes at a moment's notice, when no-one notice. she appears slow, through the crevice through the tall overlooking precipice, such a theme like auspice. even at a time when the night was old or young. she would fly in blind, even when her arms and legs are bound in bind. at times, she was kind, like the kind when kind was as such kindred but as such, a trait desperate. she was a soul, but not yet whole. a mortal fold into folds of cold caress that digs deep, the hole made in the earth. as like only the emotion you can unearth, abyssal profound in the lost and found of the heart at taut. at thought, she is a firm believer, of the heart's deceiver. she believes that what it means is what it meant and that the stairs of love is a short descent.

she is a tailor of affection, the sense of elation, an auteur of empathy with the right amount of melancholy. she is the last drop of hope, at the end of the long rope that ties the world's last misanthrope. she is the dire need of dire needs for the willing unwilling. she is the season, the unscrupulous reason of the stops and the where-with-all killing in the fields of feeling. she remains under veil, a sweet dark conceal from the light and the bright illuminated height of eminent limelight. she is the dagger that sever, the lever that levels all the seven levels of heaven.

it is her hand, that puts him to sleep and all the secrets he could keep, through the deep, rolling forever for never ending keeps. it is her words that echoed, in his thoughts even at a time when time forgot. the plot, the mis-thought, the frown distraught and the ascension from the rows and rows of phantom eidolon illusionary future brought. she was here up north, bringing the world's bedlam south, with uncouth seeing eyes and soothing thighs that ties all lies into a splendid suture for the future.

at a time where there is no time nor place to face, solace. it is her, his secret fervor, ardor, lover furore.

1 Comments:

Blogger  infatuated

This world is a very lonely place if you never learn to love broken things

Monday, August 12, 2013 7:59:00 PM  

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