What is this I see?
The shimmer of years yet to be,
The draping of a quilted sight,
The flaking hope on a snowy night.
A sea of mist sprung from your lips,
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“Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality – it’s all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I’m attending here is a show with another set. And the show I’m attending is myself.”
― Fernando Pessoa
Do I weave these moments, or do they weave me?
Blinking here, flickering there, caught in a breeze,
Spiraling out, or spinning in, no hint of intention.
Caught in the scope of a placid sea, a spotless reflection.
You gave me the courage to open the box of darkness I had left unkempt,
Who knew that my weathered heart could still garter a storm, its wintry embrace,
Subside the violent eddies, by the blow of your song, your quiet lament,
Pummel the overbearing winds, with the courtesy of a flap of your wings.
Ensue the harvest, the reaping, and then the weaving to outpace,