On the eleventh of November, she stopped writing.
She lost the only real thing she'd ever known, buried six-feet underground. The flames of her passion had smoldered into ashes. She was living a nightmare.
Like a misguided ghost, she aimlessly floated through the chains of the lulling time. The ticking of the clock felt like a painful throb of a pulse, a heartbeat. And even then, she never felt alive. She was merely a ghost trapped in her past, a shadow without form.
But he came. He came with a thundering roar, a blinding flash of lightning, an incessant torrent of lashing rain. He came with such a rattling force that her lifeless life shook with a startling intensity. Her blood started rushing through her veins again, her heart pumped life into her cracked system. And the ashes rose from itself like a phoenix reborn.
On the thirteenth of June, she started writing again.
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Written Constellations
PoetryA constellation of prose, poetry, and verses spun together for a galaxy of love, life, heartache, and hope.
