I had never known before
that silent panging
in their ailing bones.
I had only known before
the way that mine had
ached with pint-sized woes.
How pious a mind had I
unknowingly so.
Reinforced by pride,
persistant and petulant
my heart relished in
these specious motives.
But to see those eyes I grew
to know, was vastly
unexplainable.
Everything was tinted dark,
darker than any
color definable.
I knew not of this darkness,
of its tumultuous
hand in all they had.
Why hadn't I so recognized
its countenance corrupts
and gives nothing back
Weariness will harden hearts
until softening
is inconceivable.
But hope will croon like an incessant
bird until she is
acknowledged.
She will not accept what we
pretend to understand.
Leave nothing to your own mind she warns
that is where things become warped.
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddalla day ago in Fiction
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