Could it be, that love its very self, has begun to play the almighty roll of the illusionist?
For only yesterday did I catch a glimpse of you, merely a glimpse, yet, what to every other could only have been a matter of seconds, to me became hours on end, played out as though time was putting itself on pause.
And throughout these moments, born to me, was an image of utterly unmistakable grandeur at its all time diligent best.
But all is not as sweet as your appearance, it would seem.
For not only are you an utter mystery to me.
You are, it would seem, unbeknown to everyone else that I have taken to asking witness of.
Oh most punishing phantasmagoria, why must you subject me to these unbelievable scenes of beauty? For what was a moment to the eyes is an eternity to the mind, most certainly made harder by knowing of no truth at all concerning your existence.
No comments:
Post a Comment