by Fiction Writer Anthony Darden
A kiss goodnight is never enough. And arms are just too cold.
Unless they are through eyes of another, to sooth their anguish soul.
Vacant, empty, void, unfilled, to name a few. It is a sad thing. The saddest is in the eyes. To see such empty beauty, unfulfilled and languishing behind a wall of self-doubt and low self-esteem. Always questioning. Always wondering, and spinning affairs to compensate and move absolutely nowhere. The natural and pure elements painted over, assuming the best, but lack the vitality and spirit to match and compensate one's natural appeal. It is what happens when one is hollow, when one is self loathing, dramatical, and insincere. They often revert, unpragmatic and precarious through others. They most often miss the light of their own heart. Their beauty, their style, their grace, and refinement. Always seeing life through the eyes of others. Never once taking a real chance on self, or those that truly love them. Always holding the eyes of another, another view, another sight. Never their own. Never beyond the borders of earth. They want, without giving. They take, without receiving. The world is theirs when it comes through the view and eyes of another. Their flagship. Their band. Those that pass in the night with fleeting conceptions to feed deaf ears that laugh and cheer, party to the break of dawn, and go back home to the misery that awaits them.
Prays fall at their feet, yet they turn away. A kind hand holds theirs, but yet they pull away. A kiss goodnight is never enough. And arms are just too cold. Unless they are through eyes of another, to sooth their anguish soul.