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I surrender, will call your name no more, defeat to the heart is a blow to the soul.. but dry your tears little bird and fly home. So easily forgotten, as a but a piece of clay that will be left unmolded, to dry and crack in the winters cold.. Hands that could not fit the potters wheel, eyes that could not see the passions of color or feel the textures of of wonder that lay beneath the surface, begging to be brought to life by the one who didn’t care.. Wrapped in thy self and giving to none for fear of becoming a mortal of feelings and sharing undone.. Unforgiving or just ungiving leads to an empty void never to be filled with empathy or hope, but easily forgives the deceitful pronouncing it sane, Oh where is the mind that plays such tricks, and blinds the seeing to such forgetfulness. My way is clear , my path is marked and narrow. Footprints of one, I walk alone.. the path is straight and no view to distract my climb. mathematicians will tell me when I put it to numbers that nothing is nothing and more makes nothing at all.. The wheel remains silent, no moisture to add so the clay goes unformed and cakes into its musty form, soon to be solid , unbreakable by none, is no longer willing to become the jewel it once was.. Solid as a rock is what I become.... There never was, there never will.. more of nothing is less than nothing at all < |
