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if, from pain, meaning is found, then from meaning, art is born.
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by ludensnakes
grieving for a loss yet unfound.
the absence of a grave doesn't wash away the
coming death.
my soul, heavier by the second.
why is it so hard to let you go, even though you're still here?
this death is necessary.
but I can't seem to find the strength in me to kill the thought of you.
cut the evil by the roots.
how, when the flowers are the only color I've ever known?
as they say, all things end.
the certainty of the loss doesn't wash away the pain.
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