FollowTheCookie

Footsteps echo in my head, A hypocrite stands at the altar, teaching his flock of sheep. Not one of them will lead. A matyr lays prostrate above, trails of incense curling around and blanketing scars, wounds and thorns. A heartbeat pounds in my head, it takes me a trip from my own world to realise that its my own, then I return to the memories. They say that the good times make you smile. I think its an oxymoron when you're crying smiles. My heart feels like ripping through my chest and screaming with the anguish that's caught up in my  throat. Pearls drip down my cheeks, they taste bitter on my lips. Three hundred and sixty four new awaki

The air is like a velvet blanket wrapping it self around my senses, intoxicating temptation. Her breah is a soft rush, echoing in the stillness as the candlelight casts in her its soft glow. Eyes of azure trap mine in their gaze and a cold breeze raises goosebumps on the back of my neck, or maybe she's got me so wrapped around her little finger I can't tell the floor from the ceiling or the wind from her twisting curls of hair between her finger tips. Her lips are a soft inviting embrace, and time stops as she steals my breath away, her head finding a niche between my neck and shoulder, supple skin tracing electricity across my collar bone

In the night I am as the new dawn breaks first light on the horizon; A cold breeze that dances on the dead leaves and a sorrowful gloom that lingers like a curtain, if all the world's a stage. The Nightingale sings a symphony to the graceful ballerina. Her movements are soft as the rays of dawn, that warm the darkness in their delicate caress. She awakens in a lovers embrace, angelic lips grace the cheek of her beloved. The sheets whisper of intimate passion and love not mine to bear. And of my envy, Dante will persecute me, impairing my vision with merciless wires of steel. Another face in a city of souls, that barely recognise the city'

A still wind in the sanctuary of my mind's eye and a lily standing still in the rushes of a field of long grass. Her whispers carry to me, rustles in grass. Its sweet, melodic and tragic. The grass beneath my bare feet feels cold to the touch, her voice drawing me closer. Rest she tells me to heal your open wounds, I will look after you till the morning kisses your face and the harshness of a lonely moon can wound you no more. Her sweet caress and intoxicating scent lull me into a restful sleep, my soul finds peace in her tender embrace and she sings once more, a tragic, sweet melody of hopes, dreams and things to come. I can breathe. The