| Sunday, July 19, 2009 |
| Perpetual Gloss in Waning Symptoms of Passion |
At the end of all sweet things lies,
A certain life in what's made of cries,
There maybe nothing worth talking anymore,
But those solemn pleas shrink in dismay,
Maybe there's lots more than partial feign,
They cried together in relentless pain,
And forgot the reason for The reigning day,
A mention may subside with passing day,
Yet, who could wipe a past clean,
Of relinquishing the firm world to redeem,
Of coexistence in passion and unkindled fervour,
There's much to much in glorification,
From weakness to nothingness I surmise,
That destruction or dysfunction shall be the ultimate,
Yet there's something grey, all that intimate,
Giving away isn't as easy as it seems,
And so the symptoms shall persist,
In a certain reminiscence you fail to resist.
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posted by bereaved vendetta @ 8:08 AM  |
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