As I stand against
this young evening of ageless sorrow and regrets, the tender moonlight unveils
a tyrant truth long hidden underneath the silent dark. The reality of it is so harsh
and true that I am currently compelled to call on those distant dreams shining
with the grieving stars a million lightyears and chances away. Hoping, eagerly
hoping, that my plea might be heard. While the mortality of man blankets the
rest of souls all day tiring, I live wide awake. Weakened by my own pointless
art, my quill dries. Still, I have found a way to continue writing, thus making
this brief moment eternal. Quiet. Quiet and thinking. The moon must be. I have
always referred to myself as a poet so passionate about his loves. Tale after
tale, my mastery has been getting more sophisticated. However, a man comes to a
point in his life where he finds what he truly dears, and he will cherish that
thing until his death. I have come to that. At first, I thought it was poetry.
The art of turning one’s bleak and barren thoughts into an undying masterpiece.
Then, I realized I was wrong. For all those times, it wasn’t poetry, but the
one who fuelled it. It was her. It is her. Sad thing is, she has told me that,
like those dreams on which I call, she wants to stay afar. Distant. In faith, I
do not know if I should carry on writing. I owe you an apology. Perhaps you
will not be able to hear from me again. As said, a man will cherish his true
love until his death, and when his true love says that her love is dead, he is
as well. So, distant dreams, guide me home. The world shall continue living,
and life shall go on, and my end shall prize my pain as I break my stand
against this young evening of ageless sorrow and regrets.
-Rain Check
-Rain Check
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