Her dwellings were known for its darkness.
Eyes filled with secrets of her own.
She ignited a flame in the murk.
Found and cursed by chaos.
She ran. Sprinted for her redundant immortality.
Eternity never appeased her.
Extinguishing the little spark she had.
Hands tied and feet cold.
She chased shadows and broken dreams.
Only to taste blindness, pain and lies.
YOU ARE READING
The Beauty of Chaos
PoetryShe was a writer, the one who lived in her imaginary world. Her lips do not speak, but her pen does. Her ink filled pages gave lives to fantasy. She dreamed timelessly of the things that can never happen. When the monsters were at bay, she wrote, of...
