She hopes the shiny side of the moon will someday listen to her prays and pour upon her the faith that has been lost as the day is born and the nights overcome the sadness.
The intensity of the silence strangles the empty voice of a scream that can’t be born and the tears that can’t be shared.
her words are consumed by a poem that can’t be written by hand, but only with lines of her own blood on the paper that can absorb the scent of pain.
The intensity of the silence strangles the empty voice of a scream that can’t be born and the tears that can’t be shared.
her words are consumed by a poem that can’t be written by hand, but only with lines of her own blood on the paper that can absorb the scent of pain.
While the hours mark their way through her face and the seconds become an intense agony of a desperate soul that craves to feel something else but sorrow, she amused herself looking her countenance fading expression that are so well trained to keep the audience happy over her own misery.
She stares at the shadows of a dim yearning, difficult to recognize from the eyes of those who see her as such an object, as such creature that lives in the day time while her thoughts are hypnotized by the undreamed dreams, vehemently she keeps on feeling she’s just an insignificant woman that can’t jump over the string of revenge.
Patience is no longer a virtue but her own torture that emanates from a stare soaked in mysticism trying hard to find nothing in the near distance but a gesture of kindness and benevolence.
The permanent lump in
her throat constantly remind her that this remoteness will never be closeness since this never given caress grows in disappointment, bitterness, mortifying this eternal unconsummated love.
She stares at the shadows of a dim yearning, difficult to recognize from the eyes of those who see her as such an object, as such creature that lives in the day time while her thoughts are hypnotized by the undreamed dreams, vehemently she keeps on feeling she’s just an insignificant woman that can’t jump over the string of revenge.
Patience is no longer a virtue but her own torture that emanates from a stare soaked in mysticism trying hard to find nothing in the near distance but a gesture of kindness and benevolence.
The permanent lump in
her throat constantly remind her that this remoteness will never be closeness since this never given caress grows in disappointment, bitterness, mortifying this eternal unconsummated love.
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