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Sometimes I wonder if I am the weaver of words, Crafting each verse with care and skill, like a arras of birds. Or perhaps I'm a translator of the universe's song, Piecing together syllables like stars to where they belong. Amongst the cosmic whispers and the universe's murmurings, As a translator of its essence, I find my soul's yearnings.
you are all that, and that's all me. you're all those, and those are all me.
what I am, I'm to myself, what you are, are to you, where I exist, I exist there, but what I am, am I to you?
fact or a flaw, truth or a lie,
a turned down word, a rejected account, or a tale being denied, on just every count.
spoke of heat, spoke with heat, denial and resentment, a mind on heat.
an attempted play, a day of pact, darker days, and a deal compact.
days turn to nights, and nights; midnight, worrying soul, and dimming light.
and the night is over, and the sun has risen, and a new day, rising over the horizon.
days turn to weeks, and weeks to month, the soul laments the day, in silent, shadow leaves the hunt.
winter, the days, cold and dry, the days of crisp air, the days of an arid eye.
winter, when the frost covers the warmth, and the heart goes numb, when the polar wind rises, and the heat leaves it's crumb.
winter, it's snowy days again, winter, it's days of frosty pain. winter, hazy days and misty nights, winter, cold wound and tears down rain.
it's a story, one about the warm days, when the world was in chaos, but my heart in allays.
a word was exchanged, a song delivered, a lyric when composed, then a soul shivered.
a travelling mind, a homed heart, the tone was soft, but the lyrics tart.
the days have passed, and the weathers changed, daylight turned to twilight, and the cold unchained.
this is a story, a story about me, a story about we, a story about who i'm meant to be, this is my story...
this is the story, the story of a bird free, wings across the sky, one hopping tree to tree, this is the story...
the one of who I am, of where I am, and where I should be, this is a story, this is my story.
beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, but how beautiful they must have been to see beauty in that chaos.
am I alive, or am I dead, am I real, or am I woven, do I exist on my own, or to this world, am I cloven?
is it my life, is it a dream, am I awake, am I asleep, is it the height of life, or depth of fancy so deep?
The river courses through, unbidden and unseen, its waves like silken strands—quietly beautiful, never asking for admiration.
Sex isn't an act, it's a feeling.
A feeling of being with her, a feeling of together an emotion of bond that tether. Intimacy in between a couple sweethearts, as if fabricated albeit the divinity's arts.
A pledge persistent to be held, an ardor potent for me to yield. complicated sentiments of voyeur, motives me by your amour.