Flee from me, regret.
The hand that cannot be cleansed,
the memory that shall never be erased.
What have I done?
Who have I become?
The actions that eat at my conscience,
the stains that soak into my skin;
It all sounds like the lamentation of a dying man,
the eerie hymn of a woebegone soul:
This crippled heart still murmurs sacred chants of bitter things some will never know.
Flee ,silent feather,
flee on the velvet of the wind.
Flee from the grotesque and malformed notions of your charming freedom.
All is murky in this basin
where I tried to forget what I’ve done.
Pull away from me, heart of love,
dim darkness to reign,
stained crown that speaks of stolen dreams…
Flee shadows flee,
before I become just a shadow of me.
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” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”