noctivagant
A skeleton. An empty frame of a person, that is what she was. "I'm skin and bones, now," she thought to herself. Nothing remaining but her tiny and hopeful soul, faded and bruised, but alive.
violent storm inside
pulsing, pushing, trying to make its way out
I'm desperately holding onto what remains
trying to make sense of what I'm given
raw emotion in it's simplest of terms:
love, hope, fear,
all in the mixture of a storm
A trophy. Dull, blurred at the edges. A name that is faded, barely existing, a shadow. A shadow of a hero. Of a figure. Of a leader. What is to become of you? Will you be soon found in a cardboard box, merely a memory?