Slip slide, run and hide in the worlds deepest hole. Dig one your self or just rest to become one. It matters not. For here in the deepest holes and homes of the world is a shade of our world. One that is needed. A place of true peace weather it is in death or is self cruseafiction. keeping the would out is the easy part. The wold out of your head keeps rolling on like you were never their. Letting you to your troubles. But the one inside your head. The hole we all run to at least once in our life. This reality weather it be real or in our mind is the greatest torturer of it all. For the holes In your mind are like a dark room. Filled with silence for your ears aside form the music playing to your side. Low and in a lulling hum it plays out on its own with beats of bass and strings of a guitar. The humble power full words of the artist sing in the air piercing the hot and cold air. With the darkness and light from the screen it lets your mind wonder. Slip into it recesses and hide. Digging up the pane’s of your past. Letting you look at the faces of loved one’s. and feel their words echo in your mind. See their smiles and hear their laughter and cries. Wishing to feel the warmth you never got or the feeling of their skin sliding along yours. Letting them look into your eye’s with a question and letting them find it in your lips, your touch, your hart, or your love. Thriving on something that will never come again. Instead you look back like a fool. Watching as her life dwindles into disbelief, And disorder. Wanting to fix whatever they would let you fix, knowing that the little pieces they let you slip ack tegether will not work unless the hart is willing to let them be put back into place.
“Rest your hart in my hands and I will not let it fall. Look into my eyes and tell me im a liar.. Look to my soul and let me fail you in my hart. Dig for my past and watch me run. Or leave it be and watch me distory us. Leave me be for you could not ever understand.”
Like the cries of a broken and bleeding hart they are cradled, protected by the arms of its owner and refused to be touched my another. Still many with to help and then turn on the hart just as fast as it was helped. One drop is spilt on the ground by a careless act and the hart is torn from the caring hands. Hurled across acer of land and time. But still the pieces are found in time.
Look to her face. With the skin of a Devil and the eyes of a goddess. He looks another way. Saying she and you are just friends. But the moths when you are torn only serves to fuel the flame. Heating your hart for the first time to love. Or the idea of it. And yet after being toled twice she still say’s “friends we shall be”. Shattering a tender beat but even when the hart is hidden in the mind and burred by the thoughts of others and the possible love their she pops out. To probe the hart. Stop it. Slow it. Remind it f what it has lost but never had. Like the Egyptians of old with their eyes painted and out lined they have the eyes of lust imprinted on them. And they know it. Like a serpent of the devil they spin a web of lies, and hurt. Letting their victims bleed as they bath in anthers blood. Not even giving the wounded the satisfaction of being some use. As their last few moments slip form their minds and harts. Still the fool profess his love in letter that is quickly torn and burned in the fires of heaven of hell. For a forbidden love he held for this woman. And et even now weeks later she haunts his mind. As his hopes rose for but a moment. As another girl was presented for but a moment. And then in the dark recess of his mind and his room he slipped into his pain once again. Seeing her face. And wishing to touch her skin. Feel her warmth in his arms or her hand on his face. If only for a few short moments it might be worth it. But as we all know those few moments of heaven and splendor would only serve to make him ake for more. So perhaps it would be enough that he had what he had and he moved on. But something sin this world will change. But his I feel will not change. Not for a wile. And until he gets those feelings for filled he might not ever be able to love another woman again. Still he tries to drive on and complete his mission. For god and country he presses on. Trying to forgive and forget his trials. But such a face and hart so pure are not easily forgotten. And even the skin he never touched will haunt him for years to come.
 morti_cacciatore · Fri Nov 10, 2006 @ 04:00am · 0 Comments |
