The sweetest thing, she sways, the moon changes her mood.
She's so cofused, always so tired, dressed in mismatched attire, like something out of a fairytale, like the fairy outcast who dared to be different.
Her eyes are coated in coal, burried behind so many thoughts and miscalculations. Hurting.
Words circle, and she smiles like she doesn't give a fuck, and sometimes she doesn't because she can't.
Her world peaks to the point of perfection, and crashes to its end, and she just keeps on grinning like this is all an illusion...
She's an artist of sorts,not one of multi-colored paint brushes and bold canvases dappled in inks and smudges, she creates entire realities and adds to minds. She controls everything in her path, and prays for tragedy.
She walks with confidence, arms swaying and dancing to some imaginary trance, her voice is strange and accented, like fancy e's and a's found in French words gone English.
She burries her face in auburn hair and cigarettes, hides from the blazing heat and sleeps the day away.
Her love is unconditional, but her hatred for her own humanity rages deep within the burning furnace of desire for a better world, a better selection.
She's constantly in a daze, her fists are clenched but she carries the white flag. Doves flutter by, but she holds the heart of the fox, sly and devious, with the curious mind of a cat, and the eternal howling of the wolf, the observant eye of the eagle, and the loyalty of the dog.
She is proud and her willpower is strong, she has potential, and she fears Time.
She picks flowers and places them amongst soft hair, she loves warm hugs and headgames and simply hates ignorance of any sort. Her voices raises in passion, and she is passionate about everything.
Her mind wanders to the furthest point of the universe and never comes back to earth. Her heart accepts all who are able to love. She sings of love and heartache and nostalgia and fancy trips, and she writes of experience and terror and sex and beauty.
She aches and waits for herself to wake up and realize who she is underneath all the pretty character.
The ugliest thing, he wilts, the sun burns his skin.
He's so angry, always so selfish, dressed in filthy attire, like something off the streets of London, like the junkie who lost his way.
His eyes are coated in suspicion, burried behind so many lies and underestimations. Hurting.
Words circle, and he laughs like he's the only one, and sometimes he is ecause no one else can understand.
His world peaks to the point of illusion, then crashes down to the end, and he keeps on taking like the world is his for the taking.
He's an artist of sorts, not one of pretty pictures and well-structured portraits, he creates entire realities and adds to minds. He controls nothing in his path, and prays for it to all spin right back into fractal place.
He walks with apathy, arms flailing and marching to some imaginary command, his voice is loud and repeated, like trolls and goblins fighting over the dragons treaure.
He burries his face in matted dreads and bongs, hides from the blazing heat and sleeps the day away.
His love is faked and elusive, but his hatred is vast and wicked, burning deep within the furnace of desire for a better world, a better selection.
He's constantly in a daze, his arms are open but he carries the black flag. Vultures circle overhead, ut he hold sthe heart of the serpent, cold and reptile, with the arrogant mind of the cat, the eternal howling of the wolf, the pride of the lion and the erection of the dog.
He is proud and his willpower is gone, he has potential, and he fears love.
He picks flowers and throws them to the trashcan, he loves warm coffee and headgames and simply hates critisism of any sort. His voice raises in confidence, and he is confident about everything.
His mind wanders the the furthest point of the universe and never returns to earth. His heart rejects all those who are able to love. He sings of hate and violence and blood and fancy trips, and he writes of experience and codes and sex and religion.
He aches and waits for himself to wake up and realise who he is underneath all the feigned character.
Under the moon which changes her moon, and the sun which burns his skin, they found comfort in eachothers embrace, for just one moment, but that moment would last 'til the end.
Under the moon which changes her moon, and the sun which burns his skin, she finally let go of him, bidding hima final goodbye, knowing they'd lost everything they'd ever shared.
Under the moon which changes her moon, and the sun which burns his skin, he finally understood exactly what he'd lost, and at last he felt regret and shame as she walked away forever.
The serpent and the ocelot lived happily ever after, but never again would they touch.