Come, quiet this shivering eye
Unprepared for winter,
Hear the late rosebud's soft cry
As it won't bloom, but splinter.
Forgive the truth that came out wrong
In a moment of weakness,
Remember to wrap in a song
The last word of love's witness.
It's late and cold, sheer abyss,
The nightfall's now right here,
Going to sleep without a kiss
Steals each new day a tear.
About Me
- n a r k o s
- I'm captivated by the beauty that doesn't catch the eye to hold it prisoner, but asks instead for revelation, not lending itself easily to be discovered. I'm attracted to the sparkling of truth as it hides beneath a cloak of lies. I'm tormented by the good nature of evil. I like to cross the boundaries of bearability, so as to feel the pulse of illusions. Nothing is more fascinating than the taste of such forthcoming illusion as what we call "reality." This is what renders the mystery of Being a little more unintelligible every day--if one is ever able to taste it, and as much as one is willing to put his own being's mystery at stake. It's all just a game--a game played by myself with the one I believe myself to be. The stake of life is playing; the game itself doesn't have any other stake than to be played full course. That is, until it becomes something serious, because seriousness is always fateful. Only children can play, but there are no more children today, only adults-to-be. Adults do know how to play, but they cannot truly play--they are only able to plot games, thinking that manmade creations must be easier to control. But, are they? Or do they control us instead?
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