By claire lee
To live, to die, belies a sort of beauty and melancholy.
The low rumble of thunder that makes a dog shudder and a flower bloom.
Tossed in the capricious tides of fate and stroked by the gentle indifference of the world; where nothing started , nothing need be finished, so where do we go from here?
The inclination to love and be loved, maybe not so much but just to feel seen.
To suffer the cruel benevolence of heartache, a painful lesson of love you grow to tolerate.
A progression towards and regression from …
What exactly is it that we purpose ourselves? (if not love)
The noiseless chatter of love and hate droning on and on.
A treadmill of desires and wants. to what end do we seek?
The blurring hues of cruelty and benevolence; from adversity blooms beauty,
Perhaps something to compensate for fate. A lone traveller tries to navigate, but
All is a fog. A cog in the wheel, and heavy hangs the heart.
claire lee hibernates most of the time and listens to sentimental tunes when struck with those late night blues, sometimes she writes what she feels to make sense of things or the way she thinks. the teenage chapbook is the first publication she’s ever sent her work to.
Image: @cantusamator via Unsplash