Minds are webbed, silver threaded and fragile. Viscous fibers cloak the skull, a decrepit cavern where thoughts catch on the walls. This cumbrance- it snags each passing memory, and in an impermeable catacomb they decay. Never to escape their somber grave. If I could untangle the lacework perhaps I could remember, but I've long since given up, it's fragile and jaded.
Now is the genesis of haunting ambiguity, the ruination of truth. A lesson to all not to let life's expanse cloud your existential perception of purpose.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
I know you're tired of cliches.
I think about that when the sky flush's red and I wish you could see it too.
I don't wish although to tire your eyes with evanescing pigments, but I do desire to enchant you with anything I can find. When my neighbourhood is furnished scarlet, and leaves cascade with gentle pushes of the wind, I want to ask you if the world feels like a home to you. Is that a cliche too?
I wonder if you feel your skin change with the seasons. I wonder if you run you fingers along the grooves of a leaf and try to feel your own chemical changes as the months go by. Do you admire Its splendour? Do you admire your own splendour?
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC