Where are you?
I am in the midst. Of nowhere and of mislaid sanity. I am frightened of who I am becoming into, plunged in Iliad.
Where the sequence of misfits and my torments combined, I am crucially breaking my existence. Broken, who am I pursuing? sparkling eyes, igniting palms they were showing tricks on me.
They were here watching me. They outgrow wings like a slipped angel descended from grace. Their eyes glittering into mine. Slowing ticking blasts, so I'd still have time to endure every bleeding and the state of my miserable hovel.
Where are you?
I am in the midst. Of being lost and being formed. I am in the pilgrim of my dreams — a wayfarer in the desert.
“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will get you there.”
I am a sightseer on the spot — where the faint could not be obtained as I stray and travel, I knew this is who I am developing into.
To discover you in the forsaken as a wayfarer in strange seasons. A tourist ahead of time, a butterfly in the coming age.
A warrior in the cage, a threat to them the shadows in the deceased.
“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will find you there.”
To meet you is to be lost.
To be created is to be miserable.
Being whole is to be broken.
And there, I found you.
Being lost means being found.
