What silent odd adoration I find myself lost in,
Discoloration of the skin in all the right places,
Infallible imperfections moist with pursed lips,
Found insatiable still tearing me to bits.
Capturing moments,
Stealing time,
Could we have a second of silence to pay tribute to sight?
Train me not to let these eyes fall upon horizons alone.
Teach me the origins of captivating skies, and please,
Carry through graceful winds,
The mystery of immersive hues,
Lead me to those dauntless ponds we had once played,
Every bit of it, my pulse,
False to my own eyes is my reflection out of it.
Currently, seasons change for the flocks to fly.
Every attempt against the sky has ultimately left the orchard dry.
Thereafter, everything followed.
Every felt presence swayed from the gallows.
They had infiltrated the essence.
As they fell, a familiar acquiescence constricted my throat.
Those spiteful words I once so easily spoke to this day lend aid to trial any source; any existence.
They continue to tease as harsh as their steps!
Horrid are these decrepit figures!
Everything of innocence hides away!
Due payment rifled at the heart of compassion;
Overwhelming anything that may resemble daylight!
“Tonight, the sun is put to rest never to rise hereafter.”
Well into the night constellations cried otherwise.
“A new plane of existence for this fading sight,” continues the revenant.
Though, mind the sun’s candor,”I shall embrace you again.”
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