There is a crease to my lips, That bends into the cheekbones only when I think about Him. I don’t know why but it is endless. I know that complete self of myself when the crease of happiness happens. I know that there is nothing ahead. Neither woe nor smile.
Certainly.
But, well, we humans don’t learn in go, do we? (Or a million …) I don’t comprehend why the sadness has to implore me. But, it does. It is my pleasant indignation. I have none else to convict.
Do you know when does the poesy auspiciously fly into a poet? During the usual festivities. Like one this new year. It is just that, their image is opposite.
They seclude their selves to include into a sad session of poesy rather than enjoying the striking hours of new year’s eve … Like the rest. Our joy is in avoiding our dreams, exactly when it appears, isn’t it? Because thawing the pain in mute is ******, every time.
December 31, 2015. The stroke of midnight. Just before Thorne and Randall arrived.