Timothy

Jack's Twisted Kingdom
2004-06-30 08:12:06 (UTC)

no love for the wicked


she doesn't love me. probably never
will. closer than the stars, and yet
it will amount to nothing but a stale
dream lost to the morning mists.

i try, and i try, many times have i
held my hand out. I suppose i should
have gotten the message before.

but then again, when have i ever noticed
the land mark signs?

i'll tell you, i wonder about us. what
could happen, the sliver of hope that
keeps me awake at night wondering what
it is that draws me close. i have dreams
in which her face is clear as night, but
when the her beating chest draws near and
i hear the pulse of her heart.

it's a steady, dead beat.

she, on the other hand, is full of passion.
her laments on life erupt with a vigor i've
long since forgotten, and wish to worship
upon the sands of the beaches. aloft i fly
i suppose, with asperations too deep for her
to comprehend.

i've been told, that it is the illness of the
mind, and the heart sick lamentations wrought
from the broken whims of those who've beat
her into the ground, crushing her soul to
kindling, peices so slim, so naked that
the eyes of those who gaze upon them see but
glitters on in the tears who shed them.

she doesn't want me, as much as i want her.

the irony is more tragic than the tale

...