Dear Knight,
Is it true? What flies in the sky of your eyes, is it proof of my demise? I bequeath to you, dear Sir, the reply.

Your brow. It twitched.

If I was not so weak
If I was not so cold
If I was not so scared of being broken

I would be...
I would be...
I would be...

- Frail/Jars of Clay

Her eyes.
And the pools that beseech them.

Good Sir,

You are very good
and that is good;
but,
good Sir,
unfortunately, I have found a flaw
that,
good Sir,
fortunately, you are very good at hiding:

........ahem

Good Sir,
I am good (in my ways),
and I am good at keeping secrets;
but,
good Sir,
do beware!

Well,

I have not written anything significant in a very long time. The confession of the latter sentence is both relevant and ridiculous, which means that I feel both absolutely justified towards my neglect and absolutely forlorn. I will continue to post as often as my brain and fingers will allow it, and in so mentioning let me venture to say that my brain has been ill of late. I will not disclose why or how, but indeed it has been ill. I fare you all good day.

Why is it that I don't stare back?

Gravity

I once thought I could fly;
I was wrong
because gravity really doesn't exist
and I'm not flying.

I'm falling.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.........for a friend of mine (God wants to catch you)