The words
The petals
On a flower that
Thrives by appearance
Is only
Will merely
Be a flimsy
Taste of what's inside
Why price
By the eyes
The symmetry
Of flawed beauty
As though
As most
Are weighed by
Thoughtless ideals
For those
Four arrows
A sma...
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as i follow her to the ends of the world, you turn this path into quicksand. but to struggle is to quit, and i cannot ignore my sense of duty, my vow, etched in stone like the stones that line this trial, like the walls of my veins that refuse to cave despite the wrinkles betraying their age.
and when she kisses you, i watch her hands trace your body; an angel exploring your map, blessed wings drenched in mud, cursed to forget my plane of existence that we all tread upon.
so i wander this world alone, a nomad searching for an oasis to quench his desire for these insignificant pleasures, a spell to dissolve this walking plume of fire before logic can defy the sun.
but i fail to recall that oxygen is fuel to this fire, to dazzling spectacles, to emotions of various extremes. with a brush forged from solitude and pain, i end my misery, and paint myself into the shape of my desires, letting my life bleed into the rivers and oceans, releasing what i should have long ago, so the fish can carry my story onwards.
i live peacefully, only on a different terraform of Earth. here, all is quiet.
