You spoke of love,
You never meant it, it seems.
You spoke of happiness,
Your own at my expense,
Of morals: virtues,
As long as they were mine.
Your own virtues, hidden, latent in some distant desert swirling land,
Forgotten, along with me, my ashes, but a song to thee.
And I sit here, broken in you,
Living my life, trying but to spite, upsetting you,
Showing what is mine, and is not yours,
And I cry, As I realise this,
I live to spite you,
Not to aid me.
And yet, the night breeze, I sensed, it became a hurricane in the morning, my dream, in it as though truth itself, is to know that night breeze, as though in romance- to romance the mystery of the hidden truth. For I love the night breeze, which so few yet can sense.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Posted by Marc Evan Aupiais at 7:57 PM No comments:
Dad; Husband; Christian (Catholic); Irish. — News; Business; History; Civilizations; The Western World; Speech; Culture; Law. (Pronounced: Aw-Pea-Air.)
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