bhut

you are made of returns, the soft warmth of your gossamer aura, against the cold stems of my frozen soul. [ when the creeping roots eat me alive, burying me between the black earth and the wet moss, when the rain soaked grass grows enough into my skin, and the moonlight blinds me to the world, to an uninspired voice of dead cities and soulless human empires, when my disappointed soul creates a lost monster out of me, hunger crawling desperately under my skin swallowing the rest of my restraints ] you will be my return; a song leading me back, into the comforting embrace of your wings, your claws stroking my strings, that restlessly play our note. you are silence after violence you are calm after storm you are the caress of the dark feathers on my wounded soul you are home