CharcoalBetty

Blessed are the lone with the strength to see themselves. Blessed are the weary with the heart to work themselves. Blessed are the tears of the brokenhearted with the soul to feel. Blessed are the prayers of the weary, lone lover with the faith to keep on.

This is the time when they start to really sing. Those little desert dogs. They sing to the drifting moon and the sliding clouds. They sing to her, as she smokes her cigarette, the cold chipping away at her. Its quiet at this time, except for the singing dogs. She hears nothing this time, as they sing to the night. In and out. She breathes. She doesn't. This time there is no one. Just her. This time, the night stops. And daylight will not come. This time she breathes, and nothing comes out. The smoke is gone, but still it drifts. This time. This is the time, for contemplation. Before the smoke fades away. This is the time to breath in the t

Wandering through times of flowered past. Distinction muddled and patience drained. The lack of comprehension flows through the veins of the wicked around me. How touched I once was by all this filth and distraction. How did I ever see beauty in these things? I loathe them so - Now I wish there were some wondrous thing, or being - That would take it all away - Or take me away. These are now long forgotten hopes and dreams. Alas there is nothing to ease my tormented mind and soul. A being or pharmaceutical of such capacity does not exist in this forsaken place. This place of equivocation and derangement - Of filth and pestilence.