The season has arrived, I fall into the deep shallows of darkest nights, Where the cold winds would flow through my cold blood vessels, The crackling sound of bonfire and the smell of smoke from my bones that fills up the place which has spent decades without any light, the laughing sound echos of those spirits of december who would give their presence in the christmas supper with me in the solitary silence with their frenzied laughs tonight.
I can no longer hold the snowy flakes, they're too heavy for my shoulders that carry my despairs to fall on. I can no longer walk on the alleys of love, I keep stumbling upon the rocks of my teardrops scattered around the streets that holds me down. The cardigans are of no use, They don't provide me the warmth i seek but giving me the coldness i am always petrified with. The woods that burns in the fireplace is now frosting the big house with the smoking mists of my yearnings where the ignition of frigidness remained unknown.
The foggy streets are now abandoned, People are grieving in their dwellings, For the despairs they held in for the whole year are now emerging up from within.
Cries are fortified, the tears are begging to be pacified, The rapids that flows down my cheeks, never stopping.
I sit near the moon and the stars where i am still afar from them, They pity me for my miserable yearnings and at the pathetic child that resides within me, The adolescent who begs for people's solicitude, who grows a fear that, she'll always end up embracing the wilderness of dark, And where, she would befriend the presence of trapped immortal voices that laugh and mock at her miseries.
the child envies others who get to live the tales of their love, but in search for her happiness, all she got was fatal tales of woe.
she fears if the silent voices that fills the big void could ever hear her mortified cries from the canopy of the empty domicile, cries that begs for desperate happiness.
And if not, The least she hopes for is to be with that one fainted voice that whispers her name even when she would breathe, in the place where the ivy grows on broken graves of unprecedented lovers to unite,
the voice from whom she seeks the same which she did not get from others, to whom she would return whenever the heavy sharp snow flakes would hurt the paper heart of hers, to her, who would caress her head whenever the snow would fall on her.
And as the sky would start chundering snow all over her perished grave of sorrows, she says,
"the season of mourning that traps me in this maze of melancholy, now is building up the house of cries inside me, the path which is leading me to astray,
To the place where the dead christmas tree with fragmentary wishes are burried with the trinket of winter that shines in dark sky, where the corpses of dead poets are embellished as eve presents, where, their dead cries are being sung as solitared melodies with the jingles of the broken christmas bells,
I am lead to there, to be one of them, among the ones who seeked their wishes they were desperate for to come true,
but i'm dragged into this dark pit of hysterical cries and ultimately becoming the one of them who would get coalesce with the place where the lifeless Christmas trees with desolated desires grew on the graves, where, the spirits would cry the sounds of fondness plea".
izzy806
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
