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...