/Three hearts, intertwined, connected together, by different lines./
Men were never the innocent type, so it is only by poetic justice that they receive their returns. The world had its own check and balance system, born from the ethereal light of existence only to carry out the poetic justice that men brought down upon them. Perfection had never seemed so plain yet so captivating. All it took was one glance; a game of hearts they’d call it. They would steal these hearts, one by one, blackened to the core by the dirt of their deeds, yet softened by the touch of love, a love that these angels did not feel. Diligence does not breed perfection, what breeds perfection is the lack of emotion that allows one to be sworn to their duty, emotions which make us human, even with tainted hearts held together by nothing but tar.
But every creation has its faults, like Adam and Eve, who had curiosity. In this game of hearts, a misfit was born, carved from a lesser light. But even in her beige glow she radiated captivity for the soulful hearts of men. But that wasn’t her flaw, her flaw was much more beautiful, less obscene, but one that made her flight vulnerable. The angels never felt affection, they only felt apathy to the pain of men upon their presence, but even men had their exceptions.
/From white to beige, tables turned, in first love, a lesson learned./
Their captivating eyes, their endearing smiles, their soothing voices, all tools to hold the attention of men long enough for the angel’s to plan their escape with the hearts of unsuspecting men. But she was unlike that, and perhaps that was her flaw.
She looked down from Eden, upon the world below, her eyes stuck on one soul. He was no special soul, nothing out of the ordinary. But he had a gift, one he was not willing to give to anybody. He had the gift of his voice, one that was able to enchant her. A feeling that no one around her could understand, Angels don’t fall in love, but perhaps misfits do.
We value love a lot, and so, it is only fair that that value be respected. The pursuit of love came at a high cost, but it did not bring with it certainty. Certainty, without which, we are grounded, left to read in between the lines until we find our hollow solace, our happiness- void of truth.
She descended, losing her grace, parts of her that made her herself. She only wished to accompany a sinner, something she was not meant to do, to prolong her stay she tore her feathers, damaged -he would soon call her- but beautifully so, for she only wished to bask in his presence, in his blue presence, not one of sadness, but one of intensity, one she had never seen before- but one that had her enthralled. Eden took a different face, one lacking certain perfection yet one that was equally as bewitching.
In chasing things that aren’t ours, we descend from our Eden and somewhere along the way we lose our wings, purposely, to prolong our stay, to look for something- only to realize that it never wanted to be found. It was perhaps, meant to be found, but not by us.
/A bitter truth eroded the soul, the beige angel was never whole./
The game of hearts had been reversed. It’s true when they say that we lose more than we bargain for when we give all we have in hopes of minor returns, for our happiness ,is a second hand happiness, one depending on the smile of our loved ones; but perhaps we are not that to them.
Her love, was a black rose- rare, unique. But in admiring her rose, she jerked at the stem not noticing its thorn, she pricked herself. She bled, but she did not care, all she wanted was to nurture her rose.
Roses only look nice in their garden. Her rose did too, but she had to pick it up, for love felt like a possession that must be obtained. Cut from its stem, the rose wilted, but she watered it anyway, not noticing the petals giving away.
A love lost, another found, but no heart, to go around
We admire the freedom that birds exercise, a freedom that perhaps we cannot attain, so we cage birds and create a glaring reflection of our own captivity within ourselves. However, it is hard to take in a bird with broken wings and nurture it back to health.
In a heartless world, it is people who have less that give more. Perhaps it is the lack of material in their life that allows them to value the little things.
Deep admiration grew.
Perhaps from a sense of nurturing a wounded bird back to its full glory, to allow it to return back to where it belonged. It takes a lot to love someone that cannot love themselves because they no longer know who they are, because in their pursuit of what was never theirs they lost too much of themselves.
Lying in a rose bush filled with thorns, the very rose bush of her self-demise, she was found, by one who would walk with her until she didn’t need to walk any longer.
Poetic justice was breathed back to life, the clock of check and balance started ticking again.
Perhaps we aren’t meant to receive the fruits of our love from the tree that we nurture, a tree that only bore rotten fruits. But from those rotten fruits, grows an orchard that returns our love tenfold, in ways that we could not imagine- poetic justice.
He fell in love with her broken voice, her vibrant laughter, her captivating eyes. He noticed how her lips curved and he stared at her beauty, the beauty hidden behind her broken wings. He gawked at her when she spoke, her voice rung in his ears like it was a celestial song, sang only for him. He knew true admiration.
She finally had her love returned to her, only, she had no heart left to bear the weight of his red.
Perhaps, it isn’t hard to nurture a wounded bird back to health, what’s difficult is letting it fly back to the sky where it belongs after you’ve poured all your love in to it. What is hard is the realization of the fact that it was never yours to keep.
Man was never the innocent type, and even in all his love, he was no different. So, poetic justice?
Men were never the innocent type, so it is only by poetic justice that they receive their returns. The world had its own check and balance system, born from the ethereal light of existence only to carry out the poetic justice that men brought down upon them. Perfection had never seemed so plain yet so captivating. All it took was one glance; a game of hearts they’d call it. They would steal these hearts, one by one, blackened to the core by the dirt of their deeds, yet softened by the touch of love, a love that these angels did not feel. Diligence does not breed perfection, what breeds perfection is the lack of emotion that allows one to be sworn to their duty, emotions which make us human, even with tainted hearts held together by nothing but tar.
But every creation has its faults, like Adam and Eve, who had curiosity. In this game of hearts, a misfit was born, carved from a lesser light. But even in her beige glow she radiated captivity for the soulful hearts of men. But that wasn’t her flaw, her flaw was much more beautiful, less obscene, but one that made her flight vulnerable. The angels never felt affection, they only felt apathy to the pain of men upon their presence, but even men had their exceptions.
/From white to beige, tables turned, in first love, a lesson learned./
Their captivating eyes, their endearing smiles, their soothing voices, all tools to hold the attention of men long enough for the angel’s to plan their escape with the hearts of unsuspecting men. But she was unlike that, and perhaps that was her flaw.
She looked down from Eden, upon the world below, her eyes stuck on one soul. He was no special soul, nothing out of the ordinary. But he had a gift, one he was not willing to give to anybody. He had the gift of his voice, one that was able to enchant her. A feeling that no one around her could understand, Angels don’t fall in love, but perhaps misfits do.
We value love a lot, and so, it is only fair that that value be respected. The pursuit of love came at a high cost, but it did not bring with it certainty. Certainty, without which, we are grounded, left to read in between the lines until we find our hollow solace, our happiness- void of truth.
She descended, losing her grace, parts of her that made her herself. She only wished to accompany a sinner, something she was not meant to do, to prolong her stay she tore her feathers, damaged -he would soon call her- but beautifully so, for she only wished to bask in his presence, in his blue presence, not one of sadness, but one of intensity, one she had never seen before- but one that had her enthralled. Eden took a different face, one lacking certain perfection yet one that was equally as bewitching.
In chasing things that aren’t ours, we descend from our Eden and somewhere along the way we lose our wings, purposely, to prolong our stay, to look for something- only to realize that it never wanted to be found. It was perhaps, meant to be found, but not by us.
/A bitter truth eroded the soul, the beige angel was never whole./
The game of hearts had been reversed. It’s true when they say that we lose more than we bargain for when we give all we have in hopes of minor returns, for our happiness ,is a second hand happiness, one depending on the smile of our loved ones; but perhaps we are not that to them.
Her love, was a black rose- rare, unique. But in admiring her rose, she jerked at the stem not noticing its thorn, she pricked herself. She bled, but she did not care, all she wanted was to nurture her rose.
Roses only look nice in their garden. Her rose did too, but she had to pick it up, for love felt like a possession that must be obtained. Cut from its stem, the rose wilted, but she watered it anyway, not noticing the petals giving away.
A love lost, another found, but no heart, to go around
We admire the freedom that birds exercise, a freedom that perhaps we cannot attain, so we cage birds and create a glaring reflection of our own captivity within ourselves. However, it is hard to take in a bird with broken wings and nurture it back to health.
In a heartless world, it is people who have less that give more. Perhaps it is the lack of material in their life that allows them to value the little things.
Deep admiration grew.
Perhaps from a sense of nurturing a wounded bird back to its full glory, to allow it to return back to where it belonged. It takes a lot to love someone that cannot love themselves because they no longer know who they are, because in their pursuit of what was never theirs they lost too much of themselves.
Lying in a rose bush filled with thorns, the very rose bush of her self-demise, she was found, by one who would walk with her until she didn’t need to walk any longer.
Poetic justice was breathed back to life, the clock of check and balance started ticking again.
Perhaps we aren’t meant to receive the fruits of our love from the tree that we nurture, a tree that only bore rotten fruits. But from those rotten fruits, grows an orchard that returns our love tenfold, in ways that we could not imagine- poetic justice.
He fell in love with her broken voice, her vibrant laughter, her captivating eyes. He noticed how her lips curved and he stared at her beauty, the beauty hidden behind her broken wings. He gawked at her when she spoke, her voice rung in his ears like it was a celestial song, sang only for him. He knew true admiration.
She finally had her love returned to her, only, she had no heart left to bear the weight of his red.
Perhaps, it isn’t hard to nurture a wounded bird back to health, what’s difficult is letting it fly back to the sky where it belongs after you’ve poured all your love in to it. What is hard is the realization of the fact that it was never yours to keep.
Man was never the innocent type, and even in all his love, he was no different. So, poetic justice?
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