Fireplace nights without cold
stripping a fantasy, Mistborn,
pushing without success to live,
a blackness darker than the night...
behind me, a ball of yellow fur,
purring grateful for the heat and company,
more than I have or will have,
in a path of thorns and silence...
like chocolate after chocolate,
hazelnuts, yogurt, raisins,
everything serves to dull the senses
which, however, run like rivers to the sea...
life has become an ethereal screen
filled with vague special effects,
in a storm of silence
that drowns me in salt waves...
all I ever dreamed was to taste happiness,
to be able to truly love the one that completes me,
a story of enchanting the bard of Avon,
be happy against the oracle of Delphi...
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