Tuesday, 2 February 2016

A procession Of Spectres

'The beams of the full moon danced across his twisted face like a procession of spectres' (JG) 

One day…

I found a love I could not bring myself to accept or allow myself to feel, a love that made me forget to take a breath.

Sat atop a twisted piece of oak, forced into the shape of an uneven arm chair…

He had been writing so feverously that the tips of his fingers were blistered and soon began to weep for the sanity he had given to the ink and paper that lay before him .


Fell in love with his soul, with the music of his heart beat and the lyric of his insanity. I marvelled in his genius and I wept when the procession of spectres carried him away.

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