We speak in tongues, blacker than the sun; No death can touch, the crooked young.
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Yes my little creatures, another poetry series. For you people who followed my last account, you'll obviously know I had one...
She's motionless, like a rabbit hiding from a predator. She's the embodiment of a broken mirror, a flawed masterpiece with a reflection of her past crossing across her irises in every glance.
Is she heard? No.
Is she seen? Never. A forbidden love is all she'll ever be.
Her quick looks at me when she thinks I'm not looking bring flutters to the pieces of my heart that are left behind.
Those eyes, they hold the untouched water from the springs in a misty, lonely mountain.
Her home, her place of peace; every aching moment I keep eye-contact with her, the more encapsulating she seems.
But then I remember that our longing for each other will never be quenched, this love is prohibited.
She's motionless, empty, how can I change that?
She is motionless, motionless is she.
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