Fear the coxcomb red

How different are the notions raised within who’s alone in their sentiment from those who’ve utterly lived some? How more unreal is the love we overthought only so it becomes reasonable? How far can the idea of what might have been great keep us from the good we were born to be?

The devastation brought through that kind of sadly intrinsic events is hurtfully unacknowledged and yet we can still grasp the strength to see the other’s side as acceptable, but put blame on their hands for they seem unmovable at life’s touch. A warmth that is unluckily wasted and may perhaps not ever be reimbursed to us. An accepted destination that reserves immunity only for those who wouldn’t dare to stay untouched, unpunished from all these hints of love. An emotion so cockscomb colored that leaves no trail in our blood apt for tracing, and in the end that’s all we crave, to stay endlessly enrichened from such straining emotions. To feel that one’s own state is an unjustifiable definition of ourselves, and only then may we rename said essence and wake again to a light that was always there at an arm’s length. The shine that burnt this innocent retina once and evermore, a danger to eyes that struggled so much to recover from sundry sorrow stained summer scented sunsets, solo journeys. The dim of day that used to sore the spirit even further than the exhausted body was already.

How its tastelessness grew to be the only position a man could find comfort in. How the strongest of personas can fall for another’s curious gist, offerer of this artifice of a reality that soon turns into a deserted anticipation we can’t seemingly dodge. How it is going to be when one manages to move further away and hover over you only to then evince how little that alleged joy will mean too.

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6 thoughts on “Fear the coxcomb red

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