through a silver thread our love is intertwined, leaning on the edge of a silver knife and the nape of a man you once loved, much can be undone.
such unearthly love they’ll say, much like the lines on your weathered forehead. The end is nigh, like a loose string hanging around your frail neck, bonds made to be never broken.
hand in hand, the traveling jeans of downtown abbey, such a compromise aristocrats could not bear to lose.
In the old days it was enough, card games and slow dancing in the dark, tasting much of the old stored in the cellar, spirits and conservative values alike.
but can much be said, when the raging of the dying of the light is proved useless? spinning, we can’t sit still, advertised in blue skies, our young blood must’ve been shed.
idealism and passion sits idle, in a prison, a prison we call home. shackled by sandy shores, the foundations of this earth are restrained, like the rose petals that fall from your lips.
twirling and twirling, grace and femininity indoctrinated from young, much can be undone.
