Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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When reality arrived, my eyes were wet with tears. The night found me believing greatest fears had been realized, the early morning offering a small chance at hope. Are we to believe the beauty surrounding us has expired when evidence burns at such conclusion like a sun scorching a horizon; flaring magnificent ardor across the sky of our hurried reason. Time has to slow. These hours have fallen like stars from the sky – like the ones we watched in the early morning hours long ago, our bodies shivering in the early winter morning, our kisses warm and our embrace the only heat we required. The winter of us has unleashed the most brutal chills, tears of crystal that stick like daggers in cheeks as the sun fights to birth new days. Could we ever cry enough, though? Our God was us, and he’s vacated His throne. And so we wander helpless, directionless and too fast toward a fragmented end, fallen stars that have forgotten better dreams and a home above the clouds, living a nightmare on land instead. (at Waking)

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