Volatile.

How quickly and readily we forget her trespasses, with only the occasional itch to pick at the scabs of a season pined away. (My rest perturbed by insecurity manifest in dreams of ambivalence and satire)

Is it not wondrous, how an atrophic heart manages to make an adamantine vow of arrogance? (And how i still gaze at the sky, as your name echoes within and lies at the edge of my tongue)

Wondrous, indeed.

~ by cryhavok on April 26, 2008.