I see it in your eyes,the deliciousness of not knowing what will happen next. I feel it as I breathe,a jump off a cliff,a scream tingling every nerve. A jolt from a slumber of restless living. A wordless challenge to surpass beliefs. Run. Run away from all you know. The words,the concepts,the lies,the ties. Run away to yourself. Blind speed. Look down and see the last of them on you,as you fly to you.
The night is a personal belonging. Not when you are locked up in a curtained room with CFLs invading. But when every light is given death by the very flesh of your fingers and the churning energy stumbles to sultry cold darkness. When every footstep is thunder and capable of sending slight tremors to your spine. It is when you can embrace yourself without the manmade island staring,knowing. Without the incompleteness man lends to the night,when night escapes its prison of unnaturalness,does the soul breathe. Every element is exaggerated wonder,lended the essence of night. A echoing laughter across as songs cease over food on a late night with friends and family. The deadpan stare of frustrated thinker,in the dark of a starlit night. The muted tears of a pining lover,to finally let down the walls. The essentially warm fire of the chatting watchmen on a particularly frosty night. The lonely tune of a writer's content as ink forms words with casual abandon. The night does its duty. To shelter dreams,in absolute secrecy. The next time you look at the deep blue of the star decked sky,see yourself reflected.
The night is a personal belonging. Not when you are locked up in a curtained room with CFLs invading. But when every light is given death by the very flesh of your fingers and the churning energy stumbles to sultry cold darkness. When every footstep is thunder and capable of sending slight tremors to your spine. It is when you can embrace yourself without the manmade island staring,knowing. Without the incompleteness man lends to the night,when night escapes its prison of unnaturalness,does the soul breathe. Every element is exaggerated wonder,lended the essence of night. A echoing laughter across as songs cease over food on a late night with friends and family. The deadpan stare of frustrated thinker,in the dark of a starlit night. The muted tears of a pining lover,to finally let down the walls. The essentially warm fire of the chatting watchmen on a particularly frosty night. The lonely tune of a writer's content as ink forms words with casual abandon. The night does its duty. To shelter dreams,in absolute secrecy. The next time you look at the deep blue of the star decked sky,see yourself reflected.
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