This sweetness that surrounded us, and bled with us…
We touched it, and it smelt far worse than weeds…
I have touched winds…
I have touched sorrows…
(I touched the devil once…)
…and I have touched the past…
It was like the love of thorns, like the beauty of dead summer.
But I, the lurker, the carrier of wounds outlived.
It.
I have left now. (Have I not?)
The thorns embraced us,
while resemblance dragged us further down.
It burried our minds.
None shall outlive this rhyme…