Sep 28, 2015
isn’t this how it always begins? isn’t this, too, how it will always end? words pulled from aching throats, strung together. twisted into form for beauty’s sake. we have always made monuments out of pain, cathedrals out of want. nothing here has changed, our hands well-practiced and woefully inept. too stilted, too broken, too awkward. too padded, too exhaustive, too contrived. isn’t this how a hand guides a rope? towards salvation or strangulation.
the poet / the architect / the executioner, s.a. (via hekahte)
