I guess you can never truly process an ending until its inevitable continuous has reached you in the midst of incapable understanding.
Or perhaps it's the action of forgetting that fuels an insomniac of inescapable interludes of time and feeds on the idea of lust and longing.
But in the end, the wilting of a flower can only be marked by the shrunken petals drifted from the bud.
And the stillness of a picture is nothing but an endless motion in space.
So whether once lived or died, the voice resonating through barren minds is that which calls for a remembrance and celebration rather than an agonizing nothing.
YOU ARE READING
The Truth Embarks a New Beginning
PoetryWhen you feel like there's no way out, life laughs and toys with your pain. But, when pain is built on top of pain, the doors of mockery close, and you can walk out into the world, with a newfound understanding and acceptance of what shit you have o...
