You don't know me.
Pages of a historic catastrophe disguised as a lovers memory tells a story of the blood that runs through these veins and she recites it so well. Her shadow carries the explanation to my impulsive acts. Her eyes gleam with my misdirected passion that fills my heart. And her voice is the instrument of the sound of my ill drifting mind. My ghosts presence defines me. And that unforgettable well practiced detached observation with it's witty comedic approach directs my insanity into a mesmerizing symphony. With out it, there is no melody, and with out sound I am nothing but a crazed fool drowning in my own personality. Love, you were never meant to be my eternity but you're the memory that plays in my ear that brings the calm close and gives me clarity.