bismillah-ir rahman-ir rahim.
I can find a million names to that face; I can speak of a thousand traits to that hand. I can call upon the sands of time and find what I lost; I can recreate what I destroyed. All it takes is just one flick of the switch and I will be supreme. We are what we are, genius to our art.
He who finds himself alone, is he who finds himself with friends. He who locks his heart, is he who dies alone. But he who finds himself searching, will find that there is light all over; all he needed but loneliness is not so far away anymore. You who seek what you lost, look the other way; we all are seekers to our own quidditch game. Win or lose, it will all be over soon.
We are all messengers, finding ways and manipulating others to get our message across. We are all but worthless beings, unfit for the throne that we sit upon. Mercenaries we are, profit is all we thirst. Who are we, to rule this beauty? Who are we?
Mozart once said, “To talk well and eloquently is a very great art, but that an equally great one is to know the right moment to stop.”
So when do we stop?
Are we not accomplished?
I say now, enough blood has been spilled.
Or are you waiting for even greater blood?
