Maybe things have changed
We may have been estranged
But was it me or you,
Or is it something new?
Maybe we changed the pace
And put on a fresh face
But was it me or you,
Or did it fall in rue?
My heart sings a new tune
Uncertain and all strewn
But was it me or you,
Or is it a strange hue?
I stare back with insight
Seeing it in new light
But was it me or you,
Or did it become blue?
We may burn differently
No longer intently
But was it me or you,
Or is there a new true?
Maybe I’ll find a sign
And mend our cosmic twine
But was it me or you,
Or do we start anew?
Welcomed by darkness by Backjack-Kitsune, literature
Literature
Welcomed by darkness
There is nothing more beautiful than the abyss that welcomes you with open arms, it's charms beckoning the many bewitched souls to sit with her amongst the stars and galaxies that spindle together like a tapestry of perfect symmetry. I understand what welcomes and drives those to go deeper into the gullet of a pet that consumes everything, yet is not bound by its gluttony and Beelzebolic need to imprint the sin of lucifer's brethren upon them. For the abyss is simply a Void that no one can avoid, yes the lovely darkness that desires hearts to run into it's mouth with out concern of the consequences mention, so wont you jon me in this honey trap with no latch or escape hatch? won't you come and play with a dragoness who is willing to admit that not even she could keep her darkness at bey
The Beauty of Art in Definition by LadySereine, literature
Literature
The Beauty of Art in Definition
๐๐๐ฒ ๐, ๐๐๐๐ เผบโฑเผป The brightened sequences. Waltz through a painted ballroom drenched in evening fire, A palace flourished in marble pillars of white hue; Mirroring a teal reflection of delighted desire; Gracious, like a couplet of swans shrouded in blue. View bougainvillaea draped over a Gothic Christian church, Stretched across the divine Romanesque land of flora Pouring over basins of a horizon as lights daubed birch, Reigns of mystic twilight wielding a peaceful aura. Transcendentalist perspectives ignite untouched grass, Of newfound Beauty within clasped forces of the earth; Distinctions of right and wrong left like nails as rustic brass Where thinkers cannot conceive of nature's birth. Sprouted as spotted fungi on logs, Beauty does thrive; Back in elegant corridors, its portraits remain alive. A demeaning conception. Impressionist masterpieces diminished by hateful spew, Condemned due to Plato's will to inquire; His shrieking, thorned branches emerged and
