Sweet Release

Darkness folds everlasting mantles, it beds hearts into the shape of night, so glorious of surrender, yet so soaked in sadness to remember.
Restless to the heart that grip’s into fate, fearless of who he is, mad and maybe already dead, he is one he needs to be. Now delivered to the hovering noises of his surroundings, the mind swept in, diving and blindly drifting, to the void that offers sweet release.

"It is the bleakness… It is the whispers…"

Hidden nowhere to be seen, what is formless to beauty’s eyes, may in fact be marvel to honest liars, so shall not his will vex at the flinch of a missed arrow, forging strength like a sleeping giant, he falls in slumber, his arm reaches to the sky.

"The bleakness I hold is for the soul to grieve! To know thyself is to know themselves!
To fallen stars and fallen dreamers, I carry a wish so that I may be forgiven!”

Growing painful is not curses, it takes time and it takes heart, as it takes the piercing wrath to face the nightmares of the undead.

Would not birth be surrogacy only, to the rebirth that purges in conquest of thunder, once a love that has crumbled, a ruin settled must be flowered. It’s just rawness in detail, it is the lining of the imperfect truth, not constricted nor obsolete in reason, but the quietude of sweet solitude.

"One must grow life into one’s hand!
I may suffer and I may bleed, but a transformation shall virtue a reign of striking wonders!”

It is true if you believe it, it is true if you also need it, but if you question, are you untrue? Maybe misplaced, or the least just a pragmatic loon, but not to kill the motion through, even if a cuckoo sleeps in his maze-carved clock, what we lust in one another may actually be the same tool.
So long in deepness it paces the same clock, for it still beats a raging melody, so fierce and estranged so sweetly deranged,  it still sings to the doll of his awe.

(Its harps ever defining kindness in a slow-pace sequence, its cellos plundered into a melancholy tantrum that of ancestral lovers.)

"Well… Not all the world is in shambles. It’s just that all that can be ventured not always is cared for, yet sometimes we still wish and we still hope for such wishes to come true."

The distasteful are found confused, but it is as it is, was this not also a world made by fools.

Author's Note

I highly regard a constructive opinion, or a share of what may make you feel.
Thank you for reading.