"No one knows where the edge of the knife is,
and no one knows what intelligent life is."
Long-winded lark, lamenting life, liberating lone lost; larghetto, latent leitmotif, luring lullaby loft. - Lointain; life-like Lieder, looming.
By Sara Wynn3 years ago in Poets
What of this dust, kicking up, away, wisping? Breathe, breath of those before me. - And what of me under their feet?
I will steal their time, I will steal their days, I'll have them digging their very own graves. I will steal their lives, and narrow the ways
In this grave, I saunter where faith has murdered me. The taste of rich copper from my own slaughtering by my own gardener
It will never matter what you say, it will never matter what you do; reveal yourself the devil himself and I will still make pretty of you.
And who would not want to interpret what is filed deep within the recesses of my salvaged mind, or sludge through the residual magenta choking the valves of my somehow still beating heart?
We are not where you think you are We are not where I led you to believe I know I covered your eyes, I know I whispered into your ear
I burn candles all day and all night. I can see better without the light, so I keep them lit to dim my sight; hellbent memories are scorched bright white,
Marionette My weakened legs, from having been strung up by the duplicit puppet master king-- His Majesty was done with me. Strings? Cut,
The shine of headlights meets no end, spinning world fast asleep; moon dance between their love-locked eyes, thick trees and crickets sing.
You're holding onto something instead of letting it go to be there for me. And you act like I'm asking so much from you
The world has grown dim, blurred thoughts quick have slowed, cold blood thick flows thin for precious star dust. Sound is loud quiet,
