The story that writes itself is the only one that can be written, and I as the author and weaver of tales can only write what is there to be written.
Patterns unfolding reveal the unseen Silence is broken by what is observed A curse and a burden this gift of sight Wisdom unwanted for blindness I yearn
Sleep evades me Though I have worlds to tread I'm lost in this one And words left unsaid My dreams aren't as real As the beauty I see Nor leave with me longing As much as she
the rabbit hole downward spiral no light at the bottom
Fire would be more pleasant, I think, than this grinding cold that freezes me; whispered prayers through gritted teeth, unheard, unanswered,unleashing hell, begging for release.
This gift... mine to hold but not to own, I can borrow it but only for a while; soon it must be passed on and left behind, and allowed to belong to another.
Brutal the death of a ragged hope squandered and spent where light lingers and allowed to die empty, afraid, and alone.
Within the soundof your lightis the colorand songof my heart.
Sense of worth lost in words offered in silent prayer left unanswered, overlooked, and allowed to be suffocated by the importance of time.