Shoganai

They always went and came, along the sweet beds of the slowly decaying autumn. Opaque cheeks and powerful youth, memories to be made in the midst of life; it's mysteries, it's crimes, it's pains -led by our own hands- and really, it never seems so absurd but there is a hidden side. Whether it be searched by the Philosopher, the Prostitute, the Teacher, the Healer and all of Humanity's obscure excuses, it remains present in our mind. Present, yes, but never in focus, like the cold and hopeful morning clouds who have looked at us, never criticizing but always an inspiration. It is, essentially, a life for memories to be made, for suffering to etch its' silk across our now cleansed skin.

Static glances, mild looks of contented harmony. Masks of white, red and purple with deep blue eyes. You smiled and all I heard was silence; you laughed and my excuse for sight was the temple of your soul. White linen glistening on steaming roman ponds, there is no tongue able to describe us. Above everything, above the birds, above the snow, above the rain, above the coldest winds what we have lived is far beyond the scope of life. Ideal at it's peak, with only one element of our conjugated existence higher. Momentarily, I forget to exist.