Over the time and over the pain, they come to grow within ageless binding of books. Maybe in blissful secrets you'll find yourself sane apart from me. As badly as my heart has torn, I find it placid within my girded ribcage. To my dismay, I see no use in exclaiming it, my deepest turmoil. My tethered love will remain unknown to the effortless inauguration. So to speak, I've prevailed in silence only to know the veracity of sufferance that has concluded. Does lonesomeness ever receded against the bloody trail of my consumed providence? Dear secrets, do not tarry, so. Don't allow me to forget my cognition for this faultless altruism. I only pray in aspiration for these shadowed thoughts to be seen. The illiteracy of who I truly wish to be will continue to be a subsidiary theory. To love you would only uproot elegiac commiseration. Once forgetting the contemptible abeyance for me. Dear secrets, let them remain blind, I'm afraid they'll overlook me for it.
Sincerely,
Anonymous
