A continuous wave of motion into the gloominess of tomorrow.

The layers stripped away, nostalgia be ******.

When we reach the end of this road, in the knowledge we've done all we could.

And I'll know the love unspoken, the fair queen unabashed, naked truth spilling out.


Hoist my shield up high, as I soar to your side once more.

The hunger grows.

Patience stretches off into the horizon.

A king can rule alone, if needed.

He'll wait til the fair queen sits by his side once more.

Soft juicy tender lips slide apart for the racking of the meat slab in the cavern of the beast moist and juicy it slides into it and ends up giving up its life essence for majestic theatres that blare into the silent ticks between the clock.

In the first moment of truth there is brilliance.

In the second moment of truth there is clarity.

In the last moment of truth there is resignation ; the tunnel of darkness exploding into light.

The shears I borrowed from you were rusty, I told you about them before.

The sheer dumbfounded look on my face when you told me I could keep it,
rust and all.

Only Schweer's sorrow was left, when Schwerte's last few denizens came to bid their farewells to you, the spinster with her shears.

He shuffled and wiped specks from his eyes, peering into the distance, observing the blue eyes hidden behind melanin.

Picking up scrolls of knowledge unbound, dust devils rolling in his wake.

Drew the curtains open, spilling golden cloth unto his being, as he wrapped himself in the fading of the light.


Lightly brushing fingertips onto cobwebs long frayed, rot and decay spread, accelerating time and tense til only dust remained.

Dust and memories of a time where he too, once sat as an equal to a young lord, his visions guiding the actions of a fledgling nation.


Now, all remained slipped through his fingers.


He took strides to the door, taking no time to rip open the door that held him in exile.


The Seer In White had returned.

We're one with the flame
And we burn with the flame
Til we contract the blame.

I watched his eyes flare up like the life of a dozen young children were reflected in them.

I watched his gait change, and cycling through emotions he started to dance.

His shoulders drooped as mouth began to sag, and eyes glistened over with tears bridled.


He is my friend.


And I write this for him.

It's a sad realisation,

You've pruned your own branches so that you wouldn't choke and die from stretching too far.

You're becoming ash,

You're becoming an effigy.

To your own cycle that you stepped out from.

It's always the eyes that get me.

For a walking black hole of emotion,

I sure keep swirling back to them.

When it's all said and done with,

I've become one of the unthinking majority.

The bones ache again.

Can't seem to dislodge this knife in between my spine, either.

Well.

Almost a year anyway.

I'm not quite sure if my mental strength is eclipsed by the sheer exhaustion just merely existing and trudging day by day.

I'm tired of these circles.

I step out of one to get swallowed by a bigger one each time.

Here I find myself retreating physically into smaller and smaller spaces, my mind growing too big for its own good.

How does it feel to have patterns traced on your flesh, never realising that the more you push

The more you slip

You spin around in patterns in a frozen monument to your failures

These numbers and figures didn't speak as loud as my heart.

Everyone's at my back, pushing me forward.

It's true what I heard then.

I can't be left alone.

This will happen again and again.

The flesh remembered the skin being tugged away

The mind remembered disarray

The soul going back to a long winter


Pull me back to land.

I'll kiss the winter flowers.

To write your name in frozen hours.

Long winter in hearts into brittle flowers.


Our eyes are blind, but we can still see, can't we?

A piece of red string was cut recently,

Even if I didn't feel it,

I saw time itself unravel, unexisting.

O sweet starling, starlight.

Understand we can't reach out anymore

There's a hole in my heart where you left, walked out on me with the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Will I bite the hand that feeds?

Not quite, I believe.

The grief follows rage, like remora with the sharks swimming along.


Swallow the pride and continue fighting.