RESONANCE
To be the culprit of my own innocence.
Not-half.
Dawn greets the strength of thought—
unsilenced,
untouched by will,
conditioned.
Years of broken facts I let slip by.
With silt I forgive something lost,
not-faded,
for you.
Drawn-out slowness steals consequence.
By what does the unchanging endure—
unpardoned,
for myself?
To survive without tension—
perhaps, one day?
Inner suspension...
Shards of pain stirred in the dark—
razor-grained,
born a hundred times—
memories.
To seek for others the same, again,
or something alike, that will not pierce?
Not easy.
How will it end?
Author: Veron
