my winter retreat was lonely flurries turned into storms dark skies seemed always cold bit me every second ice through my veins stiffened from life sharpen gales to cut me away I was polar from everything sitting barren until her voice her light all that warmth from beyond chiselled me free of that void capsule I am her sun she is my days
It is cold where I linger my body numbs to something sharp all I can do is watch like I am in the clouds only I walk amongst those but they don’t see me heart beating so fast it deafens any cry I make the world goes around with me no longer attached because I float between realms of real and dreams waking up in neither any rest I get is a gift like cheddar to keep me in hiding away, under… behind on this journey along an unmarked trail in a story between the lines
white white everywhere no walls no floor no ceiling just white am I touching anything am I alive where is the door through which I come did I walk through by will is this punishment for the black is this void now my penance I feel no love I feel no loss where are my memories tell me what sin lead me here I can’t see in this light because of my darkness
Lying awake in the dares of the night between the seconds of darkness that it created anxious, with a pulsing heart a sweaty grip gripping tightly so wishing for light I watch the shadows and silhouettes patrol alone by vicinity crowded by bonded blood the air steals my voice blankets smother my breath sounds muffle the familiar it’s only me now in a world of living nightmares it was always only me this life is a puzzle with many different pieces let me throw away the black ones so something beautiful can be complete
my love for you is like a book with stolen pages beautiful words erased deleted lines…replaced everything’s torn from the very bind words rewritten that were never mine an unknown author with a tale of a broken heart spends his lonely days with nowhere to start his pen runs dry there’s nothing more to capture in this tragic love story without its final chapter
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moments passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.