themoonsheart

[themoonsheart]

When I said your poetry speaks to me

I didn't mean it just touches me

I meant that it tears me apart

It breaks me so wretchedly

Like a piece of me that

Once was but no

Longer is!

[themoonsheart]

So hurt me then! Tear me apart, if that's how you know love then death would be too good for you!

[themoonsheart]

Forevermore in gilded bones,

She withered away like crowned crows,

Picking at the souls of dreaded ghouls,

Beware! Beware the lady with the silver smile.

[themoonsheart]

It wasn't poetry when her eyes closed for the last time, wasn't poetry when her form collapsed for the last time. When he wrote it on parchments, her story, her beauty, her death. He chose to let her be remembered as more, more than a corpse, more than a memory, he chose to let others see his love for her through his eyes. But when he died, when he wanted to reunite with her. They didn't let him go. The poets;they loved him too, loved his words, loved his story, fell in love with his poetry. So now he lingers, a miasma of torment, to live between realms he curses himself.

'Oh what wretchedness has befallen me!'

[themoonsheart]

In the night when we're all alone, in the secret of darkness I became what they loathed. I became the art they later worshipped. I became eternal.