opening.
when one stands alone, facing a wall, the whispers—they crawl and crawl. for every flower in bloom lies the penance of the sun, so i wait and whither, for we are not
men nor women; we are the rage in the whispers, the walls, the lost dreams of an eclipsed sun. one is in the wall, watching, one is the breeze, learning, one is in the water you drink, my touch eternal, my lost love clandestine. i am rage, untethered; my mind has chained me—because i am love lost to time, but my heart has withered, so i feed myself rage where there used to be love you; one teeters on the edge of a cliff of blankness under a hollowed sun only if they’re the ones to lose the sunlight. so i bide my time, waiting, watching, creeping, a forsaken ghost all around you in perfect sanctimony. but the whispers get to me too. audacious, vicious whimpers. without love to beat in a heart, how much can you really hurt it?
