Most people love you for who you pretend to be.

Death Makes Angels of us all.

I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply. The sound of glass speaks quick, disdain and conceals what your eyes fight to explain.

Do you know how pale & wanton thrillful comes death on a strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed Death makes angels of us all & gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws

I think the highest and lowest points are the important ones. Anything else is just...in between.

The future is uncertain but the end is always near.

The time you wait subtracts the joy The heads the angel you destroy