One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,
Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.
- Khaled Hosseini
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The remorse of picking thorns poisons the existence of beings.
While, the universe conspires to end this malice,
The flowers continue to bloom till eternity.
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And for how long does the moon reign over the blue sphere?
Creating a void filled with rue
And leaving nothing but the sight of melancholy for the dying daffodils.
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reblog if you’re a safe place for:
lesbian
gay
bisexual
transgender
queer
pansexual
demisexual
ace
hopeless romantics
cis-men
cis-women
non binary folks
the whole spectrum etc…
follow everyone who reblogs ;)
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The shivering roars of the sea,
Silenced.
Yet, it unleashed an invincible storm,
Turning reality into an oblivious dream.
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Ready to hand my blood to the beloved witches,
Who desire nothing but sweet cold winds making them invincible to fight, to rebel and create what they desire.
To reverse the reality and proving the night to be pure.
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How does school even expect the poets to understand that the heart is nothing but a muscular organ.
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'Tis a sworn nation and its free of plight.
Yet, it is famished by ancient letter
And craves a hundred words
Which are diminished in the song of this universe.
It calls out the ineffable tale of the moon
And admires the shadows of the euphoric sky.
Even after living in a phenomenal world,
It still questions, "Do I belong?".
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RIP the distress caused by serendipity
As the winds pierced through distraught
Creating nothing but antaraxia.
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Oh, but I know nothing but imperfection.
For everything good, seems too good to be true.
Therefore, I defy the perfection that I saw in the sky.
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The hues pierced through the stabbing winds.
Therefore, it was full of melancholy.
But it wouldn't die,
Even after an eternity.
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What's your sexuality
stupid
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I’m such a slut for thunderstorms
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The dynamics of sunset
summoned the spirits,
Made the sky envy
And the stars rue.
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My only motive of studying now is Prague.
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A piece of you can fly.
Don't scream at the night showers
For the petrichor scent is sweet.
Rather, crowd the doves,
The cages will be shunned.
And when the sun's up,
You'd realise what's not a lie.
A piece of you can fly.
Is it enough to save from crisis?
No one will know
Unless, those feathers are free.
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i am a simple girl i see a post about the moon and i reblog it
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