She and I
She and I writing stories
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cachoportuguez
cachoportuguez Laugh at all, they're all wrong.
Autoplay OFF   •   8 months ago
What has happened to us?

Source: https://allpoetry.com/poe...

She and I

You blossomed rose, exotic with spreaded roots of thick gold, just so far striking to the sun, you such a delightful mold.I, the caterpillar with enough amount of rolls.

In excrement, the humanoids waste, I float.

It's been so long, I haven't been able to drown, misled tragedy or not, I don't require to bloom, birth is overvalued but do I deserve to lose, or could I choke and get loose?

As most stories start, a major encounter was about to untie. The foolish timorous pair of flakes shook hands, "let's go lay on the desolated train rails," said the one with no plain aim.

Shall we permit the sun to fry our flesh? Its asperity will darken our perspective trail.

A rest on the grass was precious for both dorks, they speculate how the moon was staged and the stars played betrayed. They deliberate a cosmic revolution has to be displayed.

In the center of that field we pictured our own selves, we experiment the blissful act of creating a righteous sky, the carnival didn't even start,

we were freed from the carousel of collateral harm. Just as we thought, reveries have no taxes to be feed and you and I we'll keep being fools as everyone thinks.

The day after tomorrow we'll reload our emotions of scoria, you tender companion to my dysphoria. As the music acts like drugs, piercing our veins and lungs.

A good samaritan helped to exit the rage, an eccentric well danced craze.

Like black and white, there was she and I. She was bright as exuberant light, I was dark as a gnarly lamb. A convoluted attraction, a well designed pentagram, a blue but so blissful reaction.

Will we ever be able to adapt?

We played jesters but so fools, an admirable klutzy ineptitude, a chosen existence of pure doom, a relative delirium yet so afraid to immerse into the strange,

with curtains of normality we'll be standardly draped. People blessed the legend of the so called grey, their grins hide the stiff in their cozy graves.

Our night turned blue but the film gave us the smirk and cringe that we hoped to, our dialogue consisted in soul ache, unraveling the galaxies in which we'll never arrive, I dread.

I explained the illogicalities that hid in the best part of my brain, "death, death, death what we must do while we still have a breathe?" I raved, as a frustrated swine becoming a ham.

So will it be valuable at the end? End of session, is this the real pleasure? Anyways, we farted and continued to rest.

As Peter I racked you with despair, we must leave, the train will not wait. As Wendy you refused to a fatal fail, I stood there with a floppy shiver and quivering legs.

"I'm awaiting for the next train," she murmured with a teary stare.

I didn't let my impulses aggravate her, I didn't inquire a "why," her gaze for a lane so bright, her ambition to overcome the loner side,

I had not the gut to smear that scenery of a chance.

We both let go, mainly me, sure I needed her more, I tossed myself on the cabinet seat and controlled the sobbing of such a dramatic aesthetically scene.

I have no imagery of her, visually blurred, not a last moment to recollect, a suitable Goodnight for a tomorrow in doubt and a cautious railroad without a collision to be found.

So, like black and white, a smooth, pigmented grey, there was she and I.

Time keeps forgetting to stop drawing lines, we've got sadder and with a perpetual sarcastic shadow, we now ride in separate donkeys to grow in our own ...

or to hollow is the term that I'm looking for. A glimpse of a visit to recall that we were never alone.

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