She looks quite awful today.
The bad kinda dark and moody.
She looks like a flower today.
Very young and insincere.
Vain in the worst possible ways,she is, and yet as broken as the crookedest of the mirrors, she is.
She hates you.
No, she really isn't indifferent. She hates you, is what she does.
Carefully and with a lot of effort, she hates you.
She likes to sing , you know.
Very often , that is, and a sad song, you know.
She's not sad, she says.
"No reason to be , you know!"
And yet in the brightest of fire burns her brown eyes.
She's glad you cant see them , you know.
Grey sunshine and a tender fire by the woods.
Off and on and very magnificently she grows into a dire wound.
Only to the sound of the rain she lets you in .
Rests your head onto her heaving bosom and sings to you the lullaby of a far off dream.
She takes your hand and promises you forever and beyond!
She waits for you the next century and a half.
She sits by the window and watches the night turn light blue.
Its only been a quarter, you know!
Look at them. Look at those eyes. There are things you could be sure of and then there is him.
A Writer.
If there are men who know him for reasons other than the aforementioned, I choose to let them not matter.
There are creatures warm and tender and then there are paintings and sculptures and what not.
He is neither.
He is not a man of art nor of prudence . He isn't a man of darkness . He isn't a man of faith. He isn't a man of reason nor romance. He isn't a poet nor a singer for the king. He isn't a melody that you sing. He is not a blanket when the night isn't warm. He isn't your coffee early in the morn'. He isn't your stringed guitar. He isn't your carpet of flowers. He isn't a beast and he isn't a dear dear heart.
He is a man of words.
He is a beautiful dream.
He is the sky and the sea when they collide into one.
He is the earth and the damned moon.
And all the stars in my not so blue-ish sky.
He is pain and he is pleasure and he is beyond.
He is a thought and a tender song.
He is silence when it blossoms on your tongue.
He is a ray of hope when the rains don't seem to stop.
He is the rain when they die of no crops.
He is the ocean when it plays with your soul.
He is an innocent baby when it stares into your soul.
He is the only thing that speaks to me.
He is the only thing I can rhyme around.
He is a jar of doubt and a bundle of strength.
He is my weakness and my strength.
He is patience for all of this world's chaos combined.
He is just a regular man.
No more no less.
He is a writer.
My maker of dreams.
Does he write better than all my shillings combined? Yes, yes he does.
The most breathtaking melancholy stories. Tender and Cold. Very tender. Very Cold.
She looks quite awful today.
