thirteen: the appearance of loathing

Luminous and tranquil, once. And when the sun meets the ocean, deep and dark, it crumbles.

Values the significance of sentiments, soaring until it crashes from above, it was reinvigorated dawn, again. Fear bloomed menacingly in one's heart, gratitude was on experience, sincerity hurled.

To obscure in facades, fear hovering with the bare callousness of spirit, wary of sudden genuineness. Roaming fog vastly, waves remorseless as it seems but discreet as they can be. Roving behind the glooms of daylight, hands of thistle, subtle and sharp, candidly deceitful.

To be ingenuous comes with an agonizing cost, the ataraxis gathers at the advent of the wicked. West touching the soul, feeling like a hoodlum, obscuring in the void of shadows.

To defend one's self from the lingering rays, eyes meticulously observing the motions, wariness bellowing like tides, ripples on the street where the dawn can be witnessed. Even in darkness, a glimpse of light is present, a glance of hope is near one's touch.

With summer approaching, leaves start to wither and fall, the certainty of one staying is shriveling. Wings itch to leave and reach out, but the tail was caught in something called loneliness. Ostensibly, everything will vanish, shalt leave when time reaches omega, when reaching the end of the labyrinth. Like when the waves greet the shore with grace, like when birds lost their feathers.

Shall not break, surrounded with a broad border that continuously shouts rigorousness, because the need of protecting one's self appeared. Fear. Fear that caused sequestration to the rugged world. What is there to see when sight can only witness thorn-like gazes.

Being alone, there is the need of holding something constant. Pull back but reaches out, do not leave, for a part that is unknown ought to crumble and fall. For the sun will meet the ocean.

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