I beg for comfort with inadequate verse

Sorrow sings
her kisses in silence
and adjusts the blinds to keep the light
from mocking everything I feel

Scattered bits of sunshine raining down like fragments of crystal ice, falling through warm air. Mind is half occupied with projects, scraps of build ideas, scraps of reactions to and against events of the moment.

I stand in a thicket of sharp thorns and winding tangled vines. I thought the path was clear. Now I'm entangled again, old thorns and new catching at my clothes, my skin.

Is it over? Should it be? I've forgiven, do I forget now? Are we falling back into past pattern again, so it will happen again?

I try to push through, I fail. The thorns are too long, too sharp. I risk self-injury if I continue. But...if I stand here, the overgrowth will choke all light and I'll no longer see the path at all.

The demon's daughter told me, never again. I agreed, never again. Can I hold to that? The vines rise on all sides and I want to lash out, use my claws again, but is the temptation wrong? And am I overthinking? I have claws, I use them, sometimes I scrape skin, I'll try to watch it--isn't that where it should end?

She dances slowly
a silhouette upon the curtains
but her eyes seem to cry
only empty tears

At the house in Tombstone today. Rugs on the floor now, furniture, the little Bromasole lamp with the spiral cream-glass shade. Home, for one part of me, for one part of him. Home? Violence outside, no more violence within? Home?

I place poses on the couches with all the judgement of a wine critic, changing, rotating by micro-increments. Is it enough? Is all my care for the place capable of transferring to the relationship? Do I want it to?

And the thorns are sharp, and I can no longer see the ground. I long to fly, but if I rise, and see no place to land, how is that better?

I beg for comfort with inadequate verse
it meant so much to me... and so little to her
and I am sinking into a mountain of self pity
why can't I simply disregard all the things I feel?

And the dance spirals on in other areas...who knows how other things are going to work out, if they will, how they will, how they'll impact everything else...I still have the words of the darkened moon to heed, and consider, and I stand in shadow watching sunlight fracture three steps ahead.

I long to pull a blade and hack at the thornvines until my way is clear. But does injury lie in that impulsive action, as well? It seems to be, no matter which way I turn, how I go, there will be pain.

Train-wreck love life. It strikes again.

"where is my angel when I need him most?"

And who's saving me now? And who is it I want to save me? And why can't I tell them any of this instead of agonizing on my own?

The darkened moon tells me of the seven sisters, and each daughter's tale is a worse tragedy than the one before. I don't know what he's trying to tell me other than not to stand still.

"tell me now where did he go?"

And how do I walk the path that leads best to him? And which him am I trying to walk towards? And why don't I know, and why is the way to any path so tangled I have to stop and think? The end of paralysis...I'm waiting, by all my gods, I'm waiting, for revelation, for consequence, for understanding...and all I see are crystal-shards of sunlight in the distance.

I don't know where to go. I don't know how to get there. I don't know how to clear the path.



Gods. I never thought I'd even think this again, but...it was easier dating the vampire.

("Even Angels Fall", Cruxshadows)