I am no poet.
Today, I bring the lyrical brilliance of Chopin; The Nocturne in C# Minor. Absolute... silence, even in sound; It seems to pervade even the most secretive of thoughts.
Do we aim to wound, or to kill with our words? Measured, spoken, burned, and broken. How is it we determine their significance? Words can confound and excite and amuse and entertain, and yet... They carry our lies, our "What if"s and "Can be"s. That which is. That which is not. It is impossible to define them, give them meaning. Some are cut from their sharp edges, and some take solace in their embrace.
It's foolish.
The black tendrils arch across the sky that is obstructed by the bed of shadows and black leaves, a whisper of both unadulterated joy and the dullness of morphine. Screams echo throughout the impassive bodies of birch bark and grassroots, a maze of their own design.
And so they observe.
Some are converted into red flowers arching among the ground...
(In Flanders fields the poppies blow,
between the crosses, row on row,)
And some only start to bud, webs of intricate crimson spreading across their skin, acting only as the canvas, marked.
(That mark our place, and in the sky,
the larks, still bravely singing, fly;)
Some hold back, statues, their visages unmovable, their feelings, unperturbed. Their willful blindness will not save them. Some others are used to the Court Jester that invades their thoughts;
arching, growing, deceiving
until there is nothing left of what they where;
was there anything in the first place?
(Scarce heard amid the guns below.)
Suffer, repent, and be forgiven.
Because you're all still keeping secrets, aren't you~?
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