(no subject)
~The Shell
Born so innocent, so deep, so smooth, time chips our being. The corrosive nature of “relationship” decays our minds. We become brittle, gritty shells of our former existence. Experiences pass like sand through our boney fingers and maybe the heart does burn out.
Movements of desperation dart to a fro in our waning thoughts. Like a child collecting kindling, in a vast forest by a shore. We loose track of the time and choose to take up conquests that further our decay. We are truly asleep in the woods and as we lie there, the delicate veins of our lives are set upon a platter. The most important inner workings of our systems exposed to the elements. We like it that way. We love the burning insult of the beautiful waves that pass over us. The way the salt irritates our blood flow. We must, or we would not come back for more. We love it when the acid rain of lust deteriorates our immunities. How the wind thrashes our now fragile and corrupted frames into the next obscene endeavor, leaving us even less of what we were.
We always end up the kindling to someone else’s fire. The kindling for a fire on a damp heart, a damp heart for tears of lost love. The fire will never light. Yes, it will leave the smoke behind, and a charred skeleton of emotions, but it provides no warmth, no comfort, only a cold and lifeless shell that will go out again in search…
Born so innocent, so deep, so smooth, time chips our being. The corrosive nature of “relationship” decays our minds. We become brittle, gritty shells of our former existence. Experiences pass like sand through our boney fingers and maybe the heart does burn out.
Movements of desperation dart to a fro in our waning thoughts. Like a child collecting kindling, in a vast forest by a shore. We loose track of the time and choose to take up conquests that further our decay. We are truly asleep in the woods and as we lie there, the delicate veins of our lives are set upon a platter. The most important inner workings of our systems exposed to the elements. We like it that way. We love the burning insult of the beautiful waves that pass over us. The way the salt irritates our blood flow. We must, or we would not come back for more. We love it when the acid rain of lust deteriorates our immunities. How the wind thrashes our now fragile and corrupted frames into the next obscene endeavor, leaving us even less of what we were.
We always end up the kindling to someone else’s fire. The kindling for a fire on a damp heart, a damp heart for tears of lost love. The fire will never light. Yes, it will leave the smoke behind, and a charred skeleton of emotions, but it provides no warmth, no comfort, only a cold and lifeless shell that will go out again in search…