They speak of the moment where he whispers
Most of happening fright
In the second where the rein of his sister
Takes you by the dismal night
But through the frequent connections
No one does find the sinister
Even in broad day inspection
The idea is nothing if not frivolous
But for the hopeless victims of the daughter of Nyx
Oh how I do feel pity
Those tortured beyond the ability to be fixed
but to the world, their troubles are so bitty
To find yourself filled with the words in the light of day
Walking with the heavy burden of unseen baggage
To know there is nothing anyone can do or say
Now that is her goal
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
They speak of the moment where he whispers
Most of happening fright
In the second where the rein of his sister
Takes you by the dismal night
But through the frequent connections
No one does find the sinister
Even in broad day inspection
The idea is nothing if not frivolous
But for the hopeless victims of the daughter of Nyx
Oh how I do feel pity
Those tortured beyond the ability to be fixed
but to the world, their troubles are so bitty
To find yourself filled with the words in the light of day
Walking with the heavy burden of unseen baggage
To know there is nothing anyone can do or say
Now that is her goal
I usually loathe it when the poets are so mysterious and confusing in their works, but right now I understand why.
