A/N: Another attempt at poetry? I think so!
~Weathered
She says the world's a scary place--
Of candid horrors; shockingly grotesque.
A pretty theory though dilapidated,
As if wholly rendered by not ones love,
But the vivid nimbus, cussing bolts,
Whilst the voice of thunder booms,
Hatred unlike any; thick as sleet.
She says theres no room left.
Not that there was much in the first place.
With so much rain, an overshadowing veil,
One cannot pass through endless fog.
A screen filtered by dim rage,
Too cruel to be justified,
By any means of weather.
I wanted to tell her that she was wrong.
Sordid words filled my lips,
Plump with all the hate once spewed.
In a world where love is hazed,
I should have spoken of what is good.
The sweet simplicity of white-tipped waves,
Or the steady drum of one’s own heart.
But when one bores this storm-beaten skin,
The ridiculous obsession with believing,
In the fresh clinging of dew in a fragrant spring,
Becomes as hopeless as the lie worth concealing.
Charming but impractical; naivety.
Though to see her smile, well,
The swift crimson sunrise could not compare.
Idealistic but improbable.
That sunrise barely worth believing in.
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