Thanksgiving = The Iron Yard — —
Be still my candescent tinkering heart and graying wayward brow; Churning the blood of my own which is not; Trampled and Besotted in viscose clouts — the tender core of my solitude palpitates; And yet thankful! For I hold in the palm of my soul the whisper of tomorrow’s gleaming auspices.(by Me)
How the mind does wander when not explicitly glued to code. While the week held delicious promises of family traditions and hearty fun, it failed in truth. Deeply engraved scars of life’s clawing debauchery and betrayal singe where my heart is not patched. And, In order to purge and preserve the remnants of my soul, I must bear the cross of love’s hypocrisy and embrace the tears ensued. For when I have fully released the pain wrought in mine; Only then, can I truly heal and embrace my unwritten destiny.