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the harvestWe all live in fairy-tales, some are just a little more devastating than others.the harvest
The wind brushes over you, like rosemary kissed by gentle hands, but it only renews that numbing cold of an echoing winter. You bite the lower right end of your bottom lip, and grab the holy cross, gleaming below the vintage green skies that is abandoning it's blue hue, and think about crucifixion. The one thing that has made you begin to think about all things sharing the name of 'holy' , and then you try to understand why nature, too, must be crucified. (then you try to understand religion, and you cant, nobody can.)


deep inside there is even less"It is like walking on a cloud, except that it is easier to fall down."deep inside there is even less
They call you an angel, your frail wings weighted down by the dust of your uselessness, but I know that by the kaleidoscope pressed to your chest, past your constricted lungs, and your crumbling bones, that you have a heart.
One that only an angel, like you are, could not only hold; but withstand. Withstand the reasons that love's hands reach higher to the skies (to the stars, away, and away-farther and farther), and it's mourning songs. The ones only your ears can hear. The songs that make love so miserable.
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Each man kills the thing he loves. -Oscar Wilde
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viva la vie bohème!
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Each man kills the thing he loves. -Oscar Wilde
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