crimson colours and the constant pain of knowing you
cannot win. A fight to the death with your own heart emulates the bitter coldness deep inside,
The fluster and panic of everyday life; of lost keys,
and missed trains can help you forget,
if only for a minute.
The solitude you feel is the worst.
Like a small, crisp, white daisy forced down by autumnal winds,
pushed around by thistles that have grown out of control.
Helpless. All hope has become unattainable.
Love is for two not one. We hear of the devoted attachment a couple has. Fairytale books of princes and princesses long forgotten are the members of the worst kind of love,
The walking wounded. The one sided affair.
And I am only too well allied with this kind of love.
by Raphael Gava and Ellis Oram