3AM Thoughts (12)

Doors are slamming, year old paintings with their colors peeling off fall from the walls. Their hearts are melting in my hands, the crimson aligning itself in the pattern of my hand lines. Their mind control exceeds our ability to dream and breathe freely so I wrap myself up in your bitter sweet memory and fade away. Where to, I do not know. You

were the summer tone to my life; an orange seashell I picked up from the thirsty seashore of your island of Love – it is all merely a wasteland to me now. Where did you go, when did I become less, I shall never know any of it. For wastelands are but ghosts without a tongue of their own to speak for themselves; grey ghosts of memories waiting

for any mind to suck them in so they can lay waste to it.

Filed under: Amateur, eccedentesiast, eleutheromaniac Tagged: amateur