The Tortured Poets Department ( Juliet's Version )

Dead Glory

Credits to:    

deathanddemise 

A/N: It's a really short one. You might hate me for this one. 

As she watches the blinding sunset cast itself aggressively on the planes of the earth,

she finds herself wondering whether or not her own love was once familiar to burning passion, illuminating each dark corner of her mind she found herself bundled in. 

Set aflame, a pleasant sight to all wary passersby who found themselves in a desolate knowingness of separation. 

How each second with her amorous getaway to misery tore away at the inhibition and inability she'd planted around her melancholic being.

In the presence of a serene something, one whose splendor lay in compassion and beauty which was presented externally beyond, her anxiety melted into nothingness, and a fortuity graced her once somber fate.

Ambiguity painted across a horizon of truth, stretched over each memory, each hidden in the hills of comfort in which she nested every day, prepared to soar over the ever-shrinking earth, euphoric in every sense that there was no chance of falling. 

Moments of begged and borrowed time led to her eventual surrender to an entity which had possessed her heart, mind and soul.

An entity which, eternally, would pledge its truest devotion to her wellbeing, its undying fidelity.

An entity which comprised of whom she loved.

Whose eyes sparkled in the daylight upon her sight, whose cheeks burned with such curiosity of her touch, cherishing each encounter in the mischievous moonlight, aiding their secrecy, whose fingers entwined during times which brought gloom, overshadowing the garden of hope they tended to every day. 

A tendril of nostalgia curled on her vicarious thoughts when hope struck her once again that her love would be waiting for her, with an open mind and open arms. 

For it wasn't just herself she missed in the bright days, but her lover, too. 

Their oh-so-caring gaze, their assurance that onism was the one thing she would never have to face. 

The way their face lit up so often. 

Their warm embrace.

She was never one to be rash, to jump before she thinks. 

She would have taken her time. 

Yet it seemed to race away as she remained poised, stationary, prepared for the arrival of a great change, incorporating a sense of windless anticipation in her, for worse or for better.

She sprung up in excitation of her wondrous introspection, ready to take to carry on her life with her beloved at her side. 

Rosy cheeks dappled with tears of euphoria, inviting envy in the demeanor of the bloody sky, now forgotten.

A glint in her eyes which, in turn, glared at the sun.

In addition, the harsh winds which whipped across her face following the betrayal of gravity, her foot slipping off the cliff, an epiphany dawning on to her that she would never see the face which brought her such tranquility before her fall. 

Her hands flew up to her face immediately as she jerked up in bed, drenched in sweat. Just a nightmare, she consoled herself repeatedly. But she couldn't stop herself from glancing out her window, to the graveyard ahead, a tombstone dedicated to her past lover; a monument to dead glory.

Never mind, this is probably going to be one of longest poems.