Inner Demeanor
Jul 10, 2017 · 1 min read

In your darkest hour,
She springs,
From the depth of the gloomy clouds,
Which have shaded your life,
And show you a wading light,
From the morass of your suffering,
You try to fully open your eyes,
To see her,
And she will be already gone,
Like the spring’s thunderstorm,
Piercing the field of winter’s memory,
She does have shattered your barren heart,
But with painful love,
She does have erased your stark memories,
But with hers,
And you don’t even wonder,
Which one is more precious,
The forgotten or begotten,
Either way,
She is a thunderstorm,
But with love,
Which have shattered your heart,
Without any finite supremum of havoc;
Thank You! For More Of My Writings: Painted With Words

