DARKROAD - A FLOWERS

i thought of light. i thought of a darkness to touch without the fear of the constant wind that blew in the orages of the found to be. for me, without knowing that i could, my mind set to traps of debt in the silence of the followed through, without the mind to atire to the settled in the few, my thoughts of fear of light, as though the cure would be in the needed of the flown case in the lights array, without the cure of silence from silence in itself. the for arrays of momentum, from its slice of thought into the neverness of it all, as a wind in the night to bring sweat and more of its in the proper temper of its own. maybe i had thought of it before, i can't say for certain, but the shallow guess of the night without its before are's, a light in the doubt of the broken without itself to see the light without more than itself. if i had to bist to the sight of it all, than no doubt the sight of winters skin without the snow would adire to the needs of a broken silhouette where behind didnt exist without itself.

i had sat outside. a poor old fellow would know that my mind wasnt at its proper temple. the flown lust of a thought of a lost, followed by its call, into the winters old nights old glow from silhouettes of light and darkness. my shame that i hadn't changed clothes for the night to be, probably though, my smoke would change the feeling of old drenched clothes, not without to say. if without myself, more than any need, the sight of the blow of wind as constant dimensions of thought needed to know, the for thoughts of myself, where i wouldnt need to blur the time in its thoughts.

maybe the whole see, of fear and not, a feeling of the cold on the skin, as if it was there, and anywhere else would only be of minute, a second to waste away in its moment. but without meaning, the fire to the cigarette, blowing only to make my mind find ease in itself, where the light only shines in the nights transparency.

from my silhouette, the lights opening from a flicker of light, into the wind of knowing whether or not my silhouette was valid at the time, in the field of light of thought that my self would lose itself if it hadnt the thought of itself. the thought that i existed, and itself existed in matter. that my feelings would create disgust and chaos in the field of another if it was felt. the thought that my mind existed in anothers mind. that my thoughts were contrasted by the fear of another. that i was not myself.

when i saw her, i thought she was the mean light of a blacklight in mind. the fear of the constant pace, through air and energy, through oxygen and mind, the sound of light. the zones of color that radiated around her eyes.

outside, the temperatures gaze toward everything that existed in its entity, if flown by itself, would settle towards everything that was in the followings of weather, for whether or not existed the value of cold and heat to the bodies of ourselves. the stars shone light to the time that was supposed to be by itself and at the moment of the time of light. if myself was light, if she was, it was all of it.

maybe it wasnt needed. maybe i shouldnt have, but my mind told me to do it, and in its sight of forgetful events, the pacing of the moons light, in itself, where it is so big in your eyes that you feel that it will soon crash into you, without the need of itself, in a thought of open momentary, the fear of not opening up to its eyes.

in time, to my mind by counterbacks of thought, without the whole, would lead me to the moment i had been in. the thought that maybe i hadnt loved, maybe i hadnt hated, maybe i hadnt the verocious thought of the universe, in time that my thoughts hadnt had the opening of the universe, of the galaxy in the fear of itself.

but as light dictated most in the state of the night, a cigarette could fill the need in the times thought of what was in the state of myself. i dont know what it was i was supposed to see. in the dim shadows light, under my fears of without it, bled on the surface of my eyes pupil, to show me the light of the thought of what it was that was there. maybe i had been supposed to be thinking about her? not that i dont. i swear that i do. but without the light, nothing could ever transperse the feeling of my lost fear in doubt of forgotten light that had never witnessed itself in the feels of different either beings. it was as though the light had been the type of feeling that i had been searching off in times matter. to see the constant seen of a tiring light, constantly running after itself, in the loop of an open contrast seeding to the thought of its other side. i had been thinking about her in the most absurd of thoughts, nothing out of the other side of seeing a thought in the possibility, her thoughts resonated through me like a catapult about to being breaken by its cords, in a state of polygamy of indestructable meaning, fleeting to itself in the side of a broken pathway.

behind nights daze, my silentful gaze towards her, as a distant thought into time that i hadnt been seeing otherwise unless i was there, the current pulls towards the opening of her, in a crysis of its own, changeful in its state where time would matter more than a horizong of thought into darkness, the nights tale could tell me that the cold of summers flowing push towards winter was in its sight to be, but without itself, in a time of thought towards which one would be soon to be, the followings of weather.

the next morning, i had awaken to the full sunshine blowing through the curtains, as distant awareness to the elder day in wake, how much i had thought of her even as if i had even dreamt of her, that my eyes were regulated to seeing the distance of me and her in one. nothing that i wouldnt, i tell you, i would, but nothing else out of me, i wouldnt be able to be differently aware of the day. 

my own mind into the clasps of feeling towards a heart, if following the night can show the witnesser of beautiful sleep, in a fear of the closings of lights in lies of the silhouette of one that didnt want to see the light stop, one that had his eyes closed most of the time, one that saw only the direness in colors from the entrapted being of their own to each vision of themselves. my eyes had color in them. i wonder by this day, to night when i fall asleep, and have visions of myself going through the map witrhout knowing where i am at the moment, forgetful of anything else but the dream that has caught me in desire towards fulfilling the rest before waking. 

maybe a switch from darkness to light, in insides of a distant chaos, from moments of thoughts b roken moments, in a light of called distance in the sight of thoughts realizing themselves into people that ad never existed more than any of them have been.

my memory told me of it. how i had to be seen, how i had seen them, all of it was justed by muses of my mind. could it truly be? could it truly be her who had been the one. how i had never seen anyone else by the blackness that curved allewayed to my sight, to a slow disturbance, better than i had ever seen in before.

as i smoke cigarettes behind the open door, for full weather of winter to curve in, even as if i had seen them falling, the snow, that i had been inside and had seen it, the snows madness would shake the tremble from my bones, and to see and say anything else worthwhile, the cold in the room i had been in just templated with the reaction of the outside and inside.

my mindness in memory madness, could tell me of myself as a lost person, how i had forgotten about most of the year, leading to nows moments, as sided temples of me would only tell me that i had not known of it. like before, like now, like any way that i could see them there, i wouldnt even know that i had spent a couple of days following the path of the sun from my room. like how i wouldnt know that i had been inside of a couple of days, forgetful of all.

i had thought about it. in minutery details, a cover to the winter that had prevailed into outer sights. one where, when i would wake, the snow had fallen all night presiding, and onto the ground covered the fall of one which had been happening into most of the night. if morning covers the delight of broken overviews, an encompassing of the distance of the sun in tandem of the worlds rotation, into all fair respects of amounts, i find myself most amiable by the temperature that displays in its furtherness. when i can know that sun still shines in the day, keeping warmth and touch to the one that ever so decides of it. into myself, maybe i had been in the depths of weather, where a cold day would bring myself the lowest of thoughts and feelings, a sought and sighted might of the differences of the body constances.

from my distance, to a sight that ever resides into distances might, the step and walk of a fellow, from time to time, in need of stopping to rest the old frame that had been carried for time to time, into its needs to settle the constancies of battles what is mind. into the time of understanding, it would seem as selfish values are to be found, into without outer-self, the mere needs for the mind to limit itself.

drips of rain, to the petals of day, in the warmth glazes of summers run towards winter, how i could have seen, the warmthness of the following sun, how outside, with my cigarette, i had seen the old winter take seize in itself, and followed through with the weathers course through all and for all. to even mentioning of the winters depression, in the cold room that i had addhired to be seen how else i had forgotten of matters than myself in the followings of events. even before, when i had spent time smoking cigarettes in the balcony of my house, i had known that being outside was mainly better for me if i had to be outside in the winters leaving course, where the shadow of the sun would make me into better momentary lapses from the dark cold that reigned over winter.

i had spent hours counting my smoke. the brush of light, in horizon of the cigarette that had been placed into the depths of my mouth, if i couldnt take any more drags into the silence of my cigarette, would cost me the movement of my arm before i had reached the sight of my ashed ashes. maybe i miss her, terribly so, as i had not any other thought to the cigarette of mine, nothing than the lust of her seeing me empty my cigarette before i could tell of it being lost into the ashtray. i would have loved to show her, but before myself, i would cure to being instated into itself. and for what matters, would the cigarette ever bother her or make her known of anything that had dired to my visions. into settled states of indifference, the cigarette, if it hadnt its mind into deeper value, was all that was in the ashtray at that point.

i turned on the light. the empty bare room that concluded me, for me to see of distant vagueness aside, told me of the cold room that had distant marks of my sleep, for shadows of sleep that caught me awake in the morning of my told, sold dazes of light that saw me there and near. the walls painted their own colors from time and on end, the cigarettes that had been smoked for days of the past, stained the walls from every corner that white paint would rise from its older. by meaning, as the morning sun rose, there were letters by the ashtray, ones that i had ridden before, for me to before, colded by their taint, told me of the cigarettes that i had been smoking in the past, as minor but there, the addiction to my cure that that letter would possibly be the one that had kept me awake for days of before. in the stillness of the room, even the light that grew radiatingly from the curtain, said even more to my day to what i had been expecting as day rise would make its meaning. the smells of my older cigarettes would make their way, and before i would know that i had been awake for too long, i had lit my first cigarette of the day. to the contrast of all light there seemed to be, ever distinguishably more aware to themselves, a shadow of the room would settle in the absence of me from my cigarette. the day rode quite evenly with the morning, as minutes to time, i had to be there and evenly aware of the day that had taken its past.

the clock ticked for every second, every second of me waiting by its side, to me seeing my exit out.

A NOTE

FROM GRAY

TO THE SKIES

IN ASH

A CIGARETTE