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Description
Colors loose their pigment when all you feel is
the stinging neutrality of all
the unrequited shades of love.
Your sense of right and wrong is skewed,
you hold onto your rusted chain till the flecks of
once pristine iron dot your weary hands,
the chain itself begining to disintegrate at it's links.
That is fine though, for the weary one, the
jaded one, who cannot seem to find within themselves,
the strength to let go.
A strong wind or great jerk of this
metaphorical yet, albeit vain, anchor would
surely send our love sick dog rent downward into the rejected one's spiral,
twisting and turning like the
impassioned souls of Inferno,
lost within its own fervent tempest of emotions.
A gale that doesn't stop, the poor soul
forever seems lost to this torrent,
a sign to all that tread "Be wary; this conduit of love bled freshly",
its once fertlie fields, ablazen then,
now scortched to the barest soils, the bones beneath bleached so cleanly,
primal cyclones rending it unrecognizable, temperment
desiccated till it's next fair spring.
But the seasons have conducted stalemate within this
tired heart,
the war is lost, the bodies of remorseful words lay strewn about
like that of a Spartan battlefield, speared, and
mortally, profoundly, wounded.
Oh, how one finds regret around all corners after their
harshest winter, how impossible it becomes to
stave off it's slightest chills.
The door opens, and again, the dreaded yet beloved visitor once more heralds their precence,
and with open arms, anon, they are greeted with the frost,
covering their arms and chest and clouding the eyes anew.
Indeed, the unrequited and failed varieties of passion are like the seasons,
a cycle,
and are dutifully followed by our pitiful
jaded soul.

Description
Colors loose their pigment when all you feel is
the stinging neutrality of all
the unrequited shades of love.
Your sense of right and wrong is skewed,
you hold onto your rusted chain till the flecks of
once pristine iron dot your weary hands,
the chain itself begining to disintegrate at it's links.
That is fine though, for the weary one, the
jaded one, who cannot seem to find within themselves,
the strength to let go.
A strong wind or great jerk of this
metaphorical yet, albeit vain, anchor would
surely send our love sick dog rent downward into the rejected one's spiral,
twisting and turning like the
impassioned souls of Inferno,
lost within its own fervent tempest of emotions.
A gale that doesn't stop, the poor soul
forever seems lost to this torrent,
a sign to all that tread "Be wary; this conduit of love bled freshly",
its once fertlie fields, ablazen then,
now scortched to the barest soils, the bones beneath bleached so cleanly,
primal cyclones rending it unrecognizable, temperment
desiccated till it's next fair spring.
But the seasons have conducted stalemate within this
tired heart,
the war is lost, the bodies of remorseful words lay strewn about
like that of a Spartan battlefield, speared, and
mortally, profoundly, wounded.
Oh, how one finds regret around all corners after their
harshest winter, how impossible it becomes to
stave off it's slightest chills.
The door opens, and again, the dreaded yet beloved visitor once more heralds their precence,
and with open arms, anon, they are greeted with the frost,
covering their arms and chest and clouding the eyes anew.
Indeed, the unrequited and failed varieties of passion are like the seasons,
a cycle,
and are dutifully followed by our pitiful
jaded soul.