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Sunday, July 15, 2007
He sits himself quietly by the table. The constant pounding escaping the ceiling almost penetrates his chain of thoughts, chases away his sanity. He shuts his eyes, leans back on his chair and let the wind wash him over, so calm,so peaceful. Sometimes he's convinced that every part of him has lost the strength to fight, then again-what has he been fighting for? Sometimes he's dead sure the passion he holds inside is contained, stifled,whatever is left quickly snubbed out; by what? by who?
How could one ever grow to love in such capacity? How could one ever grow to love in spite of? How could one ever die in the name of? The absurdity of loving when it hurts so bad is a thought he never wanted to entertain.His breathing gets heavier by the minute, asphyxiated- by what? by who?
Bleeding compassion, inexplicably cold.
Love, in its name to death he was sold.
Then it hits him- it hits him.
Bleeding compasssion, inexplicably cold.
Love, in its name to death he was sold.
He folds his arms, draws one breath. Opens his eyes and looks at the world.
By what? By who?
By Us.
STORMcity!;
- 5:27 PM