caught in the thorns of the words I heard.a desire to strip my skin bare
and paint those wires red.
the lonely mast plays with the skies
so turbulent
like the sea at high tide
a deathly calm
with the low mourn of the dirge.
this isnt sorrow.
it's what happens when the ash tree battles the wind.
when I lifted glass bottles and painted the whitewashed walls a different hue.
when I lifted glass bottles and painted the whitewashed walls a different hue.
disgustshamerageconfusion
regret?
regret what?
that,my friend,is the question.
for id need a hundred more seas and twenty fleets of ships to erase the clouds which sparred across my battlefield,the days i thought and the days i fought.
within and without.
regret?
regret what?
that,my friend,is the question.
for id need a hundred more seas and twenty fleets of ships to erase the clouds which sparred across my battlefield,the days i thought and the days i fought.
within and without.
1 comment:
ash trees break against the wind... as for thorns and brambles, cats seem to find a way to avoid them... that boneless walk of theirs?
bend like the willow... flow like the cat...:)
does this have any connection to what you've written, or did i just make a fool of myself??
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