"not until we are lost do we begin to find ourselves."
ballad of the lost
fighting fire with fire
water with ice, and
music with the stone lyre.
giving up
was not in our blood
but trudging on
turned the iron to rust.
and now the gates
are open wide
the fates decreed
the final line.
would the weary traveler
seek comfort in a heart
made of stone
bejeweled, in a casket of gold.
she may be shattered,
shards of her heart
cutting into her veins
yet clutched in her palms.
it is i who speak
my passion; the fire
my soul; the water
my dreams; the music.
but crushed glass
cannot create mirrors
anymore than broken stone.
in the crowded city,
she felt alone.
and winter fell,
so settled the frost.
the traveler; her heart racing, fists beating, legs pounding
whispered, "i'm lost."
YOU ARE READING
the musings of a wallflower
Şiir"that day, he came to me and pointed at the sky, saying, 'What a beautiful, beautiful moon.' but he was all i could see" i write of infinite dreams to escape harsh reality. shortlisted for wattys 2018
