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Beta Dreams
This journal is a log of the insanity that is my life. Through the mouth of the Bard, the truth shall ring.
Past That Point
From all sides I feel it, that gentle ember being lit. That heat the bears our heart, beating as one with not a part. To be played is to be mortal, to make the path a soft subtle portal. In many lands fairies fly, though no dare ever tear nor cry. Sweet as kisses shed not but blood though we've all been through the mud. I'm back for the upteenth time, doubting lots, yet splitting no rhyme. Slow of tongue and plain of speech, can none hear my soul screech. To a burning halt at the mere nudge of her words... though that seems for the birds. Call upon when you need me, for if the times come I would never flee thee. A heart made of fabric can burn out, yet a soul bound in truth casts no doubt. Til the day we are reborn, I guess I'll be that thorn.

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