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  • musingsatnight 11w

    You can stop the running now. I will protect you as my own until the death of the very last star.
    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 22w

    We must often remind ourselves that we are doing the best as we know and that we are human too.
    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 30w

    Those that are free
    The air, the skies and the weed
    If I dare to be as these
    no melancholy could touch me


    burdens -- a light year away
    The lightness defies gravity
    the spirited life born in me
    dances in fervour without a tune

    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 30w

    I annihilate myself under the bare hands of those who can never be mine.
    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 30w

    lucid dreams clear as a drop of dew
    They bloom as purple lilacs do
    -- beat joyous as a child


    In the frozen land - a winter sun
    I -- a shadow and they are somebody
    When they leave -- an eclipse gloom
    hollows inside where death can hide

    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 30w

    Infinite night -- a pearl
    Glorious symphony erupt in our chests
    a melody of storms

    We - the waves!
    break into emerald green
    glitter at the shore and rise
    To thee !
    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 30w

    All things precious stored in a jar
    Poems, memories and truth stacked
    When the gasps are heavy -- a room of soot
    The lid opens and they flutter



    Their voices a tremor to my core
    Fleeting ecstasy
    Things lost be forbidden
    O treacherous joy!

    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 30w

    How free it is a soul
    Not consumed by another fire
    But burns in its own flame
    That lasts for an eternity
    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 31w

    You are the force that binds me to the center
    Without you, I am a mercurial wanderer
    Lost and weary in the vast cosmos
    that collides and crumbles to dust
    Never to be whole again
    ©musingsatnight

  • musingsatnight 31w

    All men die
    Only a few from sickness or age
    Most are dead long before
    they reach their graves
    Of monotony, boredom or emptiness
    Their souls out of the bodies
    Their lives a dried stream.
    ©musingsatnight