Long acclaimed lost, yet LOST to a trivial moment within time. That time now long omitted from recollection and wilfully forgotten.
Lost to the annals of a history now bound and forbidden, largely sought rarely found. A forlorn existence time has delt to "it", the name now acquainted with sorrow.
Catering to that most oft reserved for ones of suicidal tendencies, manic depression and so associated. From which i seek vainly to distance myself in feral desperation of a savage being.
To know me is to know hurt in a most rudimentary form, elementary in appearance but beyond cognition to all but few. Though i deny it yet even to myself, within there is that base desire to so hurt, as i have been hurt. To crush those beneath me(in intellect, physic, fate), as I have been so crushed.
Yet I believe i once have loved.
Once... and perhaps yet once more.
This is what is hardest, to close the open hand because one loves...
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