FairWriter

Barren, He named me. With dirt, dressed me up. Set my heart in frailty My mind in chaos Shaped my structure to decay and rot Directed my fallen state and continued His art Made sure to diminish the vessel He bought. Merit unable to justify my soul I am miserable, nothing, and wretched. He is the author He wrote this terrible novel I, as the critic, assert. He the only justified critic who stands in awe of His work.

Dark Night became exclusively pleasant. Not lovely for another. This night was for her distinguishable soul. Was the air sweet or the moon romantic Was it serene and accepting Blissful or enchanted Not this night. For all men can own such verse. This night was specific, a telling of her grieving soul. She related to the night song. Nature's color became her explanation. Draped around her Was a similar atmosphere to the one developed inside her. It was black, silent, and dead. She owned the night. Creation, a testimony of her experience. Not for another.

How expensive a chance is. How desperate a moment of decision. The power given to a partner to hold another or leave one lonely. But what a power a chance can withhold. A hope burning in the unknown.