⚓ Captain ⚓

Dearest conceit, are you not the face I detest? Blanketing hopes of solitude whilst we were fighting inside menial compartments for the mammary gland of life. Holding breaths for that substance which defines such humans, this “love” spoken softly in shadows to mist concealments under open arms. The torture of gentle hands brazed against a simple face; yearning as instruments of lust fire through long nights, awake in the dreary toll of ridicule amidst sensible states of reason. Again in riddles. Peeking through a cupboard for reprise of tender swords from mild-tempered men, pondering such qualities as dignity over the possible pain of silhouettes. Locked to these words, found brittle to these moments of soulless life. Just hear defense as a brightened star: to remember you without my pen compares darkness to the light. That whored muse retained without specifics. This world is shaken bare whilst solitude appears; beckoning gold to a strumpet; feed loneliness with the satisfaction of a minutes worth. Dearest dreams if you could only save me now. Dizziness comes from the stable spells of a witch undone by the loss in modern society. Hiding beneath the monuments of those you shoved aside, thrown to significance in long-night tours of fluttered streets; feeling a ghost in solidified tones. Dearest conceit, my discontentment with you has drawn to a hampering of black lines spread through this haunted body. Does the lapse of dignity in that heart of yours entice you? Fallen to scarred feet that chased you around and prayed for your safety; fragmented and pitted, those of design curate greatness, whilst these hands of smut decay in the repugnant glimmer of hope to touch your face furthermore. These walls were developed as a bouquet for solace like trapped answers to ritual moments.