The salt stained lakes upon my cheeks are but the phantoms of my plight. The gothic dreams of past do sing ever so softly do they cry. However many days are left after this single restless night, never are comparable to the many weeks of solitude.
Woefully aware, never will Fate bring to cross our cherished strings. Your mask carries no sentiment as we dance the fading light away.
The agency of providence frowns upon the glistening moon. Denied its fate of swarthiness, I wish I shared such fortitude.
Short-lived the fantasy becomes reminiscent of warped perception. The snow falls on a summer night as the reflecting mirror shatters. However few the days may be However many lies I weave, Within my tangled web I lie in unmatched state of blissfulness.
Shinkunosuna · Mon Jun 16, 2008 @ 11:18pm · 0 Comments |