The dance with the devil is not a wild affair. It is sad, and it is cold. Each step is meticulous with hopelessness. It is arms wrapped tightly around a black hollow. It is the dance you dance while warily observing all of those that you love, walk off and away. It is where you go to hear your name, lonesome, echoing in the dark. Where you are remembered, but only by you. And made to keep on, waltzing.
‘Love’… it’s a lie.
On days like this – the whole world is a lie.
Image by sara.robin
There is this melody that my heart preserves, and has chanted since my somber birth. Like a fond memory of before this place, it sings and sings of death.
Image by Amber Ortolano