Darkened the parth with thorny brambles. Sludge, of wine-colored atonement, let free by malcontent. A ruse, likened to apathetic delirium, where professing love is a light sentence handed selflessly to oneself. What is I, depreciated life expectancy, when a stranger beckons?
Dense the path, obscured by time, we must step over; uncaring and neglectfully ignorant. What is to care, the complexities of individuality, when wandering eyes see nothing. An agonizing thought, perverse but subtle, rummaging through forgotten aches. Lament, to live deceitfully, to accomplish no more than is. In wishing, serendipitous escapades, recollection is but a quiet friend of note.
Melancholy shrewd, implausible outcomes real, invading logic. A shroud, coveted realism of thought, befitting the prominence of lackluster ponderings. Longing for closure, desires fulfilled, for a reality of unreal hauntings.
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I first saw the blood covering the flowers in a thickly dried surface formed by tears of regret after an argument. It was all due to anger, having reached unparalleled heights during a lover’s quarrel I got myself into. Nothing now but to wonder as to how long imprisonment will be when the cops come to the door.
It was dark already when I came to terms with what I had done. Never did I think I could do something so unbelievable. I can’t stop thinking about all the times we argued before and just walked away. Here I am now in regret going over the entire event over and over.
How could I/anyone in love do something like this? For too long a moment it’s as if I cherished the anger built up and put away during so many arguments before. In hopes of a better tomorrow, I killed the one I love and must now try to live without ever being forgiven.
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