It's not often I would dare to sing your pretty praises. There is no wonder left in you. You merely exist trying to tap into an illusion that fits nicely with derision muttered from acid tongues and laughing cheeks.
When you leave me (and you will), you'll leave with nothing more than the fragments of a shattered little dream and I shall go on, nursing a vessel that beat steadily to a rhythm you couldn't manage, no matter how many gulps of drink you took.
It was your ignorance for my existence, your lack of perception, the eyes you laid on others, the inabilty to think and feel and grow. You wilted me in your efforts, or your lack of efforts. The moments that cannot be redeemed no matter what soldiers and beggars you send my way.
Perhaps I am bitter, unstuck and prepared to take a tumble rather than root down and brave you. Perhaps, it really doesn't matter anymore.
For anyone with knowledge of the depths of the heart will surely know that time wounds all heals, and perceptively, nothing cures the broken like slow, patient, fresh love and still warm baked treats.
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