Tearing my hair out, platinum strands of death on the ledge that I've been pulled back from. Mountains unclimbable, goals unattainable and for so many years, I have been denied. The product of a useless existence, fabled stories and promises that co-exist with a world that blooms soft flowers and gentle morning mists.
I am the storm.
Living in turbulence, a raging sea of tyranny and oppression, the visions of dark thunder and flashes of agony slam into the bank of cairns (how many graves do i have to dig?), high hills and soft mountains, the snow that rushes down toward me.
Red on white.
Fascination encompassing, the world that I cannot comply to, a fabrication of humanity.
A sweet clutch in my chest, deep within, burying feelings inside, so deeply inside. I know not (but do i know anything at all?) why the little raindrops of crimson tides fall upon a scene that I can never have.
The only place where I wish to be lives inside my head.