The Heart'spite all solemn Poet's verse, the heart be not a spiritual thing. It is not ephemeral, it lies as sordid and coporeal as any other bit of flesh. It groans as dose the rumbling stomache or wheezing lungs But no bile or gas churns through it, 'stead blood. Blood which sets, as quickest oil to flame, the passions ablaze, spirits flow and all reason's placements tossed aside.The Heart
One's self is lost and yet gained beyond what one ever or could hope to have afore. One lives in the present, only, in each singular racing momment. Coursing blood, racing passions, brief and perfect bliss. Such is wha
Frustrations.My mind is maddaned, distracted beyond expression It dwells only on most confounding past reckonnings giving itself to woulds and weres until all lucid cogitation becomes a mired.Frustrations.
I once did posses it, the brief, ever glourious, fufiliment of the present. Being, being in contentment. Then ruination. All lost, all cast into chaos.
Within thy self, turmoil now, umpire sits.
My concious being now shuns the present. My Meditations turn themselves to walk in all that was,
and all hoped to be. I lust for that happy state I once did meerily call my own and hope, and d
Look at you all new and shiny
--
'I'm a bad thing that happens to good people.'
She smiled at me, and in the candlelight she looked at once completely insane and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
'I know what you are. You're a villain.'
I never saw her again.
Thank you for the favourite
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