Poet - Bastille
Second interlude, Those Who Remained, posted.
In a world ever imaginary the flightless take flight.
They soar among dreams, weaving melodious tapestries to keep the sleepers at ease.
She who longed to wake never could.
Because her lovers loved her so.
Breezes sift through trees, unaware of the seasons from whence they came.
Heat sings in the throes of wintertide, crooning its bittersweet respite.
Coital refuge passes the time, burning flesh until flesh burns again.
Only the young cherish snowfall.
We cry ‘til it hurts ‘cause it’s a beautiful thing.
Being what you are instead of what you should.
Boxes were never meant for long term, and neither were we.
Weird thing is you know what I mean, even if you don’t.
You want to look back but you don’t turn around.
Of course there’s nothing there you haven’t already found.
What could you see that you haven’t seen before?
What could you possibly miss when your eyes are on the door?
She forges herself anew, burning brighter by the day.
She’s lost as much as many, but she never gives herself away.
And even as they tell her that resolve will never last,
She charges on as each moment leads to the past.