Thursday, September 30, 2010


Oh, how his deft fingers play upon my heartstrings as easily as an accomplished harpist plucks each golden string of his giant lyre.
That silver tongue softly stroking each quivering note as it rolls smoothly from between his lips.
That soul, that tarnished soul, entwining itself with mine, pulling its hair and biting its neck.
Like the vines of his presence forever cling and choke the everloving breath out of my very being.
I will not be free. I do not know if it is me fettering myself or if he, in turn, is the one grasping my ankle in the quagmire of emotion.
This billowing swamp of turmoil and blind hope. Optimism and tumultuous misery.
The promise of something that will never be, those poisoned pomegranate seeds.

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