BelaRoseWolf

What nobody knows Is the secrets you could hide, The lies you may hold, The suffering you could mask, Or the troubles of your past. Looking at the serenity, The calm and peace, The perfect picture of you, Would they even care? Would anyone want to see The truth behind it all? Or would they be content, Just knowing and loving the facade You put on for them? That seems to be the truth. The irony of it, That the truth is a lie. They care not for the past, As simple humans do. They only care for the now, And pay no mind To what nobody knows.

Butterflies adorned the mariposa vines, A diversity of jewels sparkled under the dim light. But the attention was directed at the door, For a nameless soul had entered. The murmur of voices escalate As the woman steps into the ball. Thrice as beautiful as any other, And a mask like no other. The caliginous amethyst shade was Freckled with small pure white pearls on the upper cheeks, Silver boarded the edges of the gala mask And ocean blue swirls met time in time With the engraved green wings around the eye holes. Laughter chattered as they pointed and judged, But the masked woman was ignorant to the conspicuous gossip. She elegantly floor

It must have been the Moon that disheveled my Dreams, in the morning I picked up the stray butterfly wings they had left scattered on the floor, singed and still smoking with the dust of the last dream I lived before awakening, I cradled them in my palm and shed a lonely cerulean tear for their intricate fragility expired, but it was too early to mourn for what I still had... so I put my newfound butterfly wings in a jar with the skin of Stars and the iridescent scales of a chimaera I had once befriended, I watched them glitter and glow, so I opened the jar and watched them trickle to freedom, filling up that space breathing between the Moon

She is chameleons, bare-tree umbrellas somewhere beneath Autumn’s underbelly, beside once-remembered friends of once-remembered pasts, falling fragmented in kitchen sinks and cleaning bottles, still breaking hearts for puzzles, still bandaging wounds on tables of answers without questions; and she is still unknown come next October.

I have a special loathing for the quaint ceramic birds and heavy soapstone bookends that tend to litter the bookshelves of the people who don't read And I find unbearable the open spaces next to pretty gold leaf collections of books that won't be read I'll admit that I go weak for a beautifully bound tome but the most attractive one is the book whose binding's cracked with worn out letters and stained pages from being read

I unzip the seams of my soul and let out Winter, her chilly chaos chastises tonight to give up her solitude to the riot of white that reins outside my frostbitten window, erasing Summer's fingerprints and extinguishing Autumn's kindle, Winter looks at me with the second sight of her arctic owl eyes, and I know that there will come a time when the moments of my remaining mortality will clink against Eternity-Winter's lovechild-and I will come away from the encounter one step closer to washing my mistakes clean, until my soul beams ambrosia white... Once I was lost, once I was unloved-even by myself, but snowflakes shivered out of my pockets a

He really did change that day More cynical and cold And distant in a way Gestures of kindness, became selfish acts But he would roll with it, to keep his smile intact He'll walk around in the dead of night Alone going to places, where other's might Try to understand, but they never do. All because of a wish that never came true He dreams of a day where his life could be light But for now he is always Dreaming of Night.