Don't think that I don't mind. If anything, out of all of them who say they sympathize, I'm quite sure that I'm the one who will dwell on this most. It's a thought not best remembered, but things that were never meant for me to ponder, I have. I will treat this as what my mind in psychic form wills itself to manifest; which is as the flood of tears that fall as silent mist upon a sun dry lip, or as the inner echos of a scream, silent yet far reaching, from the hardened chambers of emotional being.
I hold your symbol in my hands.
That is how much has to be spilled for my guilt.
The reproach was mild, and coy was the banter, with life lessons sublimed into the delivery. As important as you are to me, so is the pedestal on which you stand. Maybe deliverance does have it's prize, but the price one drops to fulfill the say is higher than if you had never had the say at all. Did you have to do such? No, maybe out of all the clay dolls that paraded in sweet surrended before my eyes, you were by far the most substantial. You sought to return to the oven from which you came. You were formed not by our fires, but by the fires of yours. Too hot was your skin to have been strong to survive, or maybe too fresh from the pick.
Everything for once is familliar.
Not though in comfort, but in change.
What now that the rage and rainbow fish of ninety's lore have gone through the mind, and out the window? The perspiration fails to bead, and the shaking of my limbs have numbed. This fear is far beyond the fear you face. You return to which my fear negates in existence. You leave behind which in existence my fear negates. The spinning cannot stop, and I am not so naive to try to do so. We are past the point where you talk and I listen. I hand picked you from the garden, o ingrateful grape. No, the grape may choose to roll it's own. I just hoped the grape would be still in my palm, so I may one day savor it's delight.
Goodbye good grape
clay doll
twin pedestal
fear.
I'll miss you.
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