In the window stands a man, who neither looks in nor out. Upon his chest the weight of the world but, nothing does he feel. The sun upon his face but, the blood runs cold. Her disdain for life and love forces razors into every breathe. Wind blown passion scatters amongst the rocks. Tempestuous flowers lining the path, starving for the water that extends the grief. Tomorrow lives not, yet yesterday never dies. Her warmth and passion lights the fires in the arms that belong not. The velvety green oceans of lust peer into a dessert of agony and pain. Wantononly departing in an iniquitous journey. This pain was not asked for, but your leisurely stroll through the starry night, put the gun in his hand. The knees throb as they quiver opon the cold rock. Gentle breeze parts the hair. Salty oceans topple over the falls. Choking and stifling on the horrific nightmares prevents the end even for a moment. The pain has become a drug, and the arms open wide. Painful contentment now allows a glorious agony that some call sleep. Can this be the end of love?
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
In the window stands a man, who neither looks in nor out. Upon his chest the weight of the world but, nothing does he feel. The sun upon his face but, the blood runs cold. Her disdain for life and love forces razors into every breathe. Wind blown passion scatters amongst the rocks. Tempestuous flowers lining the path, starving for the water that extends the grief. Tomorrow lives not, yet yesterday never dies. Her warmth and passion lights the fires in the arms that belong not. The velvety green oceans of lust peer into a dessert of agony and pain. Wantononly departing in an iniquitous journey. This pain was not asked for, but your leisurely stroll through the starry night, put the gun in his hand. The knees throb as they quiver opon the cold rock. Gentle breeze parts the hair. Salty oceans topple over the falls. Choking and stifling on the horrific nightmares prevents the end even for a moment. The pain has become a drug, and the arms open wide. Painful contentment now allows a glorious agony that some call sleep. Can this be the end of love?
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