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Thursday, June 30, 2011

Dying with Violins

Spouting poetry from a night stand. Seems a futile attempt to bleed. Violins play in a heart of bitter turmoil. Pain fills a hunger that empties the jugular of a willing victim. Playing the strings. Praying for sleep but never resting. Hoping the sour shadows are cast on a tomb covered in sweet flowers. A single rose, the favorite unearthed and wilting but letting off the most of its captures's weakness. A scent so unmatched by even the desert's most beautiful beast.

Betrayal ignites a fire that ever wanting embers have waited for, far too long. We fall. May the lessons the past teach us find us willing to separate the death from the life. Though that which brings life is death itself. An extraordinary mirage of wander and agony. As cold as we are we still feel. Laying shadows beneath us we bask under storm clouds alive with thunder.

We are all something less than we know. Even as magic is all around us, we drift along in rivers of regret, wanting, waiting, for forgiveness, for light. We pray for sunshine and wade in the sandy waters. Muddy and alone we stand, cold and writhing with the rhythmic violin ringing softly in our ears.

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