“One gets so used to one’s own horrors, one forgets how they must seem to other people,” – Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale
What is it about this life that makes us cry?
We invest our time, and give our hearts, but they only end up being used as targets for darts.
Why do we hate loving, yet cannot stop? What is this yearning that we’ve all got?
Filled with anger the hurt spreads like heated glue. Sticking painfully, to me and you.
Severed lines and broken fools.
Yet each moment as precious as irreplaceable jewels
Cold is this world, where we wear grey suits and black boots.
Sheltered from the sun, the darkness like a walking gun.
Born into this world of confusion, with blurred lines and fine crimes, crazier times.
Does it mean that we approve when we don’t make a move?
Is this the error, and upon me proved..
People never really cared about the truth..
Whispering whimsical words will wake what wonders without waiting..
Softly singing songs, such sweet significant shivering sounds swaying..
Letting liberation lead love lavishly. .
Doing deeds demonstrating devotion
Magically manifesting moving minds
Never negotiating negatively
Accepting all alternative applauding audiences
Challenges can carefully change cause
Consumed by words
They find their way, like the buds of a flower on a summers day.
But with minds like flowers and lives like seasons:
Sometimes it comes and sometimes it goes ; sometimes it stands and sometimes it grows.
Piercing eyes, blindingly watching the cold, like Déjà vu to an experienced soul, like a story being told, just watching again how life unfolds