The lover in red
I haven't written about him in a while. The lover who couldn't love. The lover that the world worshiped, and secretly despised, for the world always despises those that stand on it's edge. I thought he was made from the stars. The kind that history repeats, the kind that time crowns as strong. The kind that Revolutions are made of.
The lover who was hopelessly in love with himself.
He was the purest of them all.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
