(no subject)
your absence has gone through me like a needle
everything I do is stitched with its color
Sometimes the days seem prosaic. My mind urges my body to go elsewhere, and when she ignores it refuses to oblige the simplest tasks. Sometimes I sit, unable to do anything but blink. It seems only natural: by now I am conscious of the marriage of my soul and body, and where he goes she will follow. Or remain despondent.
I believe that life is like an ever- moving mosaic. The pieces shift where spaces are made and they compliment perfectly. The bigger picture is always changing, and can be interpreted so many ways. You cannot choose where the parts will place: only nature may have her will, the only order being the butterfly effect which the introduction and removal of pieces begins.
Yet I feel that You are the living plaster, the glue that holds the pieces together, rather than merely a piece. Or perhaps it's love that runs newly through my veins, where before it lay dormant in my cognizance.
like a century's worth of virgin's blood - scheming
to convince my aching mind
pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need
everything I do is stitched with its color
Sometimes the days seem prosaic. My mind urges my body to go elsewhere, and when she ignores it refuses to oblige the simplest tasks. Sometimes I sit, unable to do anything but blink. It seems only natural: by now I am conscious of the marriage of my soul and body, and where he goes she will follow. Or remain despondent.
I believe that life is like an ever- moving mosaic. The pieces shift where spaces are made and they compliment perfectly. The bigger picture is always changing, and can be interpreted so many ways. You cannot choose where the parts will place: only nature may have her will, the only order being the butterfly effect which the introduction and removal of pieces begins.
Yet I feel that You are the living plaster, the glue that holds the pieces together, rather than merely a piece. Or perhaps it's love that runs newly through my veins, where before it lay dormant in my cognizance.
like a century's worth of virgin's blood - scheming
to convince my aching mind
pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need