dublin [d3; cbd 3]
Dec 27, 2015 22:35:43 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 27, 2015 22:35:43 GMT -5
[presto]
[/presto]
She tells me I do not see the finer things in life.
A blind man inside the mind of a close-minded boy; she says she does not deprive herself.
I tell her she is greedy, oblivious, a lover of the finer things trapped within the confines of a girl whose fingertips do not bleed gold, only glass.
Her eyes cut the seams of my skin like I am as thin as paper. She steps over the messes she creates and hands me the bill, says I owe her this— calls it necessity.
Evidently, we define this in different terms.
In my veins I see humanity in its basic state, a struggle for what exists in the space between a losing battle and survival. She longs to thrive, to find gold in her veins instead of our kinship, and no matter how often I take the knife from her palms she finds a blade of a different sort, a word, a gesture, another night spent in the unknown only to return with that which adds to the splendor of a castle we do not have.
She says we are heirs to this throne.
I tell her we are simply those passing by, lingering in the split seconds of greatness and greed.
She scoffs, tells me I am no hero and that the role is not mine to play. I am not saint for the simple in her mind.
In this mind of my own, I do not believe this either.
I see myself in dim light, in the morning when the sun crests the horizon and sheds simplicity on the skyline
She is the moments before the sky falls, and I’ll be damned if she does not kill me in the final moments of her escapade.
She’ll find a throne and lose a brother— all in a day’s work.
[/presto]She tells me I do not see the finer things in life.
A blind man inside the mind of a close-minded boy; she says she does not deprive herself.
I tell her she is greedy, oblivious, a lover of the finer things trapped within the confines of a girl whose fingertips do not bleed gold, only glass.
Her eyes cut the seams of my skin like I am as thin as paper. She steps over the messes she creates and hands me the bill, says I owe her this— calls it necessity.
Evidently, we define this in different terms.
In my veins I see humanity in its basic state, a struggle for what exists in the space between a losing battle and survival. She longs to thrive, to find gold in her veins instead of our kinship, and no matter how often I take the knife from her palms she finds a blade of a different sort, a word, a gesture, another night spent in the unknown only to return with that which adds to the splendor of a castle we do not have.
She says we are heirs to this throne.
I tell her we are simply those passing by, lingering in the split seconds of greatness and greed.
She scoffs, tells me I am no hero and that the role is not mine to play. I am not saint for the simple in her mind.
In this mind of my own, I do not believe this either.
I see myself in dim light, in the morning when the sun crests the horizon and sheds simplicity on the skyline
She is the moments before the sky falls, and I’ll be damned if she does not kill me in the final moments of her escapade.
She’ll find a throne and lose a brother— all in a day’s work.
avalon's got dibs
