Gap

Afraid of sleep, afraid of dreams
Afraid of the silence before I fall asleep
Where I give into the allure
Of my endless workings of scenarios
That will never happen. 

Boop

Master Chief! Now with a t-joe.

Fog

I wake up amidst a wreckage
My eyes covered by wind-swept hair
My head hurts and I'm confused
For I don't know how I ended up here

I wobble as I stand to look around
The world looked like a storm danced on by
And I am as lonesome as anyone can be
As a survivor of love's rampage, and I sigh

I walk around, trying to salvage what I can
Trying to scavenge for deeper meanings
In your words and gestures
So I can make sense of these feelings

I wait for any sign of rescue
But fog descends before my sight
And I search around blindly for stability
In hopes of grabbing the hands of my knight

I wonder loudly to myself
If I'll ever find my way through or out
As light turns into night, I close my eyes
Knowing these doubts and him I'll dream about.

I Just Want

The internal flames roared
Tearing up my insides
Wanting to burn it all down
The rage, the blood,
The despair, the desire,
The object, the person, 
A whirlpool of fumes
There is just too much love
That I want to profess
And even such things
Such lovely and delightful things
Can be heavy on the heart,
So heavy on the heart.

I-I-VII

That exterior,
That heart.

An Excerpt from "The Name of the Wind"

The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

Prologue

A Silence of Three Parts

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn's sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music... but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

*

I simply cannot emphasize enough, how sublime and delicious this book is. I was about a third way in in my last read, but I feel like I should start over from the beginning again. It would be my third time going on this adventure. You'd think that I would've read this book an uncountable amount of times already, but no. It's not that I don't want to, but the taste of it is, if I may say so, everlasting. The plot may get a little fuzzy, but the colours, the heat, remain. Also, it's a dark, heavy book. One you carry in your mind and heart forever. Hauntingly lovely. Haha, everytime I open the book, and read the words, I snuggle the book up to my chest and go "Gosh, this is ineffably good."

Caesura

You are in these lines
Weaving your presence
In between each letter
And there you are
In each pause
In my mind
As I try to write down
Each breath taken with you.

Fall

All these colourful leaves
Scattered on the wet ground
So beautiful, so dead.