The pain is a deteriorating wound that hurts
immensely
as the word of fortune simmers,
later blurts
into a thousand fragments
and also into a hundred phrases
of which how daring a move
can be precised as an ominous insight;
proves to show how dark the light can be.
A rose,
blooms into a bun of enticing aches as it surrounded by beautiful petals that chose.
The heart of the shrine and dignity's matter,
rings a bell in the hollow room of your mind and lights up the dark;
causing one to utterly and dumbfoundedly statter–
questioning the intelligence of the human mind
and putting to stake one's mentality,
the doubt of the existence of nature
and the deep cruelty of reality's giving to the ugly side of the fruit
planted by the seed's embassador.
But truth,
is not a triumph of faith,
nor is it a blessing.
The heartfelt soul claims
every broken chance
may latch on to the feeling that may perhaps drag or it alone wonders and tames
itself onto the broken and shattered heart.
It may seem metaphorical and more,
but trust an experienced soul,
because it may open a lucky cavity of truth or rather much, a door.
For
here,
the keyword is more.
An edge of the dart
can slice your heart open,
YOU ARE READING
Mellifluous Murmurs
Poetry❁ Freedom is allowing the crisp air to guide you through this forest we can call society. ❁