She was the daughter of a blacksmith For her heart was cold and hard She walked with a steady pace Close to her chest was a card Her eyes dark and empty For sense was lost to stone Only in... Continue Reading →
Always be the agent of your own heart And deal with what's in front of you Everything else is optional.
I carry the scars of the dead Of the silence, without voice I carry the last remains of my line I carry all their stories So no one else need bare them
Being punished for who you are Is the cruelest thing to do by far And though worse yet Is to hurt yourself Because you know of nothing else
She became a star when she burned like one; alone; in space; and vapid darkness.