These grounds aren't as I used to know them. Blame the intoxication on the euphonious melodies that never stop playing. Blame it on the wounds my heart bears, but just know, that I'll forever blame it on you. To the nights where I had surrendered to finding solace wrapped within your satin sheets of despair, I now spiral to nihility within the bounds of my own chaotic mind. The world around me transposes in gesticulations that reek of psychedelia. It spins itself on its feet so dainty, and excites a fall that drags me down a rabbit hole of reveries. The grounds are rather idyllic, they seem serene. The orchestra plays in muted tones, as I land my foot upon the bare grass that follows. The sounds reverberate like a rather ostentatious medley of all the things I had lost. I'm taken away into a world where this appeasing melody doesn't sting, but rather heals. Something about this remains to be eerily succouring, something I'm oddly abreast of. I have undergone this, the skinned misery and concoction of sentimentality it bears. I have experienced it all before, all before your very eyes. Aquamarine, with hues of tangerine vitiates my mirage. You glister before my eyes. I don't seem to have any knowledge as my figure sits atop the boulevard of shattered dreams, and my fingers ever so cleverly sound your melodies. There is something so virtuously whimsical in the way the notes congregate in front of me, yet there is a darkness that lurks beyond this reality. I stare, and I look, and I try to shake away this foreign feeling. There is no more joy, and the walls they're closing in around my body. Yet I cannot stop, on and on, until my last breath I'll sound your melodies. A reminder of what once was. The sheets smeared with ink, now have blood on them. Your blood. Tangerine. You've turned completely tangerine with crimson hues on white linen. This dream isn't mine. It was never mine to begin with. It is ours. It is our wrongs, it is our rights, it is all the things we're made up of. The water has now reached my line of vision, the shell of flames shelter me, and the ground is beginning to shatter underneath my feet. I titter to myself, what an imbecile. I should've known better, after all, all of your melodies have led to my infelicitous demise. And this is the ultimate end.
YOU ARE READING
VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.
PoetryNeither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]
