Saturday, 29 November 2014

©Ilisa Millermoon Intuitive Energy 
Artist  www.ilisamillermoon.com
Many are the hearts which he breaks, 

And more they shall be still, until they bleed,
That weep and languish in his pain.
He does not promise castles or pelf, 
But commitment, and love and virtue; 
Tricks the heart and his games you believe;
Of thee flight from Hurtland is the saviuor, 
From where thy heart shattered, 
Everywhere scattered are the pieces;
Confused you collect each and every shard, 
Until you have every fragment in thy hand, 
Thence commence piecing them together.

Therefore I think and decide it is for my good 
Not to go after him, nor look for him, 
And mend my torn heart and trudge on.
In the dark I let out desperate lamentations, 
The heart still holds on to ancient spirits, disconsolate, 
I cry out to the angel o’ death for second onslaught;
No vengeance nor solace can ever make me contented 
My heart is an inferno, because I want to hurt him, kill him, 

Whene’er it may be, to satisfy my aggrieved soul;

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