Drowning, yet oh-so-alive,

Clawing at the surface,

Flying through life,


Trapped in my glass tower,

Locked away

And cursed,

To see naught but the shadows

Cast, carelessly, across the wall,

Imprisoned by my privilege,

Blinded by my own brilliance,

Embittered by first love’s sweetness,

Carried away upon some autumnal wind,

Never to take but a single draught;

Caught, as if by own drought,

Stranded, as if from some Biblical flood,

On my ivory mountain,

Fated to watch the watery world


In fires of my very own creation.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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