Peruse

Re-reading stuff here in the blog.

Surprising myself sometimes with the validity of my written speech.

Yet no words can describe the colour of your hair.

No description would ever do it justice.

Black.

Always black,

firing blanks at your shadow.

And the smiles, and the hypocrisy, and the questioning looks she gives me.

All while pretending innocence and genuine care.

You can have him. He's all yours.

He's not mine

He's not yours

He's not his either,

pity.

Beware of Greeks bearing presents.

And gifts fashioned in the green mist of jealousy are the worst to receive any day.

Yet I accept them.

And she thinks she wins.

No-one wins

no-one loses.

God is playing dice in a cheap bar.

You both lose.

I know the one for me.

He's mad.

I know the one who made me what I am.

He, too, is mad.

It's only fair that he'd be the fairest of all.

No such thing as coincidence.

The serpent inside my spine unfolds.

My wings open slowly.

Painfully.

The dice come into my hand.

My turn now.