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| . . y o u u s e d m e . . + high above the tainted clouds, the silver lining of the skies, there rains a little thing called sorrow, there sings a little thing called love, and there dances a little thing called hate. The arduous demeanour of this world seems to torment the passionate conflgration within my condemned soul, and high upon the spiralling winds there sits my long lost innocence. And where I do I lie within this world, that thing line between sanity and insanity seemingly lost within the chasms of nonchalance. The roads, long and dusty tell a tale of heroines, and heroes lost. It sings of deeds brave, and of my lost naivety. What, and where, and how do I come and fit within the puzzle that is life, what does it mean to be me, and what does it seem to be someone else? and they say the caged bird can't sing + A mocking bird held within the hands of a greedy captor, who flails and beats itself against the barring walls. A cage, where nothing but the wind enters and escapes, and those hungry eyse who stare out from within the night. Tormenting me, tormenting my senses. And out of there comes forth the poetry of motion, set upon the path of the wind, who uplifts those heavy spirits as my tangled and matted locks. Flowing on the path of dreams, hopes and broken promises. Shifting within this tenebrous serenity, trapped amongst the ponderings of life. The pallid complexus shifts, and oscillates against the merciless beatings of the tempest. Where it seems that naught but nightmares strive, and struggling against those bloody hands a single fluttering of hope, but what does it bring me? who says the wingless can't fly? |