The beast follows her, day in and day out.
The shadow casts on her bones,
her skull comes dry.
The idea of running is too costly.
Her halted heart and plastic thoughts
no longer reflect her eyes,
now a misty glass.
My pen draws her on the paper,
words,
knowing I will never be the only mind to ***** through these words,
My innermost thoughts,
but still there are things my audience will never know.
As beautifully magical as words may be,
what could ever describe the feeling of a certain place,
on a certain day?
Thoughts too beautiful no words could give them justice.
So instead, we die with those memories.
Our minds immersed in the ground,
the sea,
the sky,
the stars.
So we sit,we wait,
in a white, blank, canvas.
Only painting in our heads.
I wrote this a long time ago and i just found it again. I'm happy because i thought it was a poem that I quoted from someone else!
