#317 Of…
The only moment seemingly in control is that of the full senses blaming the thought, crucifying the soul for the lack of control it deemed to seek in the first place.
Betrayed and berated by the sense of being in the divergence of seeing the truth evading the most precious of all, our affinity to hold dear those close in what could be love, care, or a sharp knife twisted in the midst of …
Whatever of… is, it lacks and holds this immense power to leave one in agony and pain, strained to a thin silver line of pristine nonsense that leaves no bodies alive in its wake, daring to call itself merciful.
Be well, be carefree, or lost in the ocean of thee remains in truth a story that escapes the breath on its last sigh to regain a smidge of hope to leave and never come back …
May it be in control and out of its mind in crazy town calling for a reprieve nothing ends where it starts or dare to call itself a lesson foretold in the abbeys of the long forgotten song of life dancing on the foothills of hope’s dreams and most of all a shred of happiness prolonged.
When expression lacks presence and in its glory a morning sunsets on the window of an eternity boiling in the brittle waters of a condescending note, the bearer gripes and shrugs in walking down the road hands flailing or tucked in a closed posture hammering the ground with every step as if the weight of an elephant is bearing every move, the song start dwindling losing its control and in the step regaining, its’ hold lost, out of whatever of… was.
Until the next ❤️ beat ~.~.~
