(no subject)

[greasylightning]

Away with words
these forskaen filters,
givers of grief, partakers of pestilence.
Lend me not your ears, but your hearts;
But listen closely none-the-less:

If an aggressor need not digress from a transgression
due to the wont of another warranting their want,
then who drew the viper from those roots?
Is the action then a source of satisfaction,
Or do the silent wiles only rile,
while distraction leads to inaction
and affection into apathy?

I know not, enlighten me.
My thoughts form an undesired trinity
of Love, Loss, and Lethargy.

Please not, lest ye be pleased.
If a technicolor bear might care,
why be it from a lover rare?

Prisms for prison, and clockwork seldom rhymes.
Does a negative of a cell, imprison the outside?

Were this form of mine laid out as a plain,
my mortal coil stretched flat, as it were.
It might resemble that of the night sky,
Encompassing much, with few things piercing it.
So although each prick of light in a
night sky may be well-loved,
It soon follows that one's form grows cold,
so should it not be then washed in sunshine?