Seventh Sentiments

None

World scribbled from letters.
Words dyed in black which painted some colors.

That's why I loved writing...

In the pages, you make the story you want, when you don't like such a life, created from huddles.

Yes, you are probably right:
I should write Happy Endings.

Reality was already cruel...

There's no such thing, as beautiful and pure.
Its all cast in a marble of dystopia.

Nobody wants the truth.
Everybody loved the lies.

Its a dreamy place,
A fool's paradise.

Yet even the wise, dwells in the fool's paradise.

We get dumber and dumber each days.

Such a dreamy place,
We sleep to live the dream.

Those tales of us were sagas from bards who had nothing else to do.
Spoken out on a whim!

I hate to admit.
But I'm a sucker of your grace,
Perfectly enamored of your beauty.

Failing to catch a glimpse of your gnawing fangs,
Each tearing my flesh.

Blood spoilt and ashen, the hell of a banter!

A disgrace to my nature...

How could a man plant when the soil is sand?
What can a man reap when he had no land to begin with?

Would I ever taste the fruit of my labor?

My heart was sowed from the gleam of your sharp tongue, molded with cold steel.

Earth is my body,
mud is my blood...

My eyes drenched a tear,
Were covered by a mountain.

And that mountain were the piled rubbles of your games.

Later I realized.

If our house had a chimney, it won't ever be used.

Because the rain will always come whenever I call your name.

Hence like puddles of water, when the sun shines, me and you would evaporate into mist.

Gone...

Taken up in the sky,
An empty hollowed space created with layers.

Exquisite but empty...

So, I wrote each chapter with you on my mind.

In the book, we danced and lived together.
We ate, I cooked you some dinner.

I carved a piece of my soul in that piece you were reading.

One day in Elysee, Hades would stop tormenting me and Persephone would finally smile at me.

We'll be those new born sons and daughters,

Pure and warm.

Then, the phrase screamed:
It's just the first volume!

And I already knew the ending...

It would be tragic, melodramatic in an uncanny manner.

The writer grew weary of writing...

No verb seemed apt to the things he wants to convey.

I ran out of words.
I ran out of ink.
I can't give no more.

And the readers slowly leaves,
Like ghosts deserted in ruins.

They disappear.
There, hang the book without its cover, forgotten.

Rotting...

I'm sorry,
I just can't seem to write a Happy Ending.

Because to me,
We had no end.

I am the beginning,
You are the only ending I knew.

I am the word you are the letters...