A collection of arcane, and perhaps at times the most inane of my thoughts.

Of a night, a knight, and a drained old fight

The gentle breeze of the valleys cooing now, the mild chills now had some company. The chills to his heart, with a sly smirk like an art, extending on as nights stood watching.

"A sigh is just a sigh", the record in a low tone sings, as his heart at a pace more than norm rings. Lines beyond recited from memory, his mind and body now differing in trajectory.

"If only I didn't", his voice went tad loud; his drink no longer neat, the eyes filling to drown the drink's innate heat. All the cabin has forgotten in his ways, when the last the neat was a neat. He never seemed to mind the saltiness; "my way, of getting to the sea I missed", he says.

The ages gone by had little change in the cabin; the stream now stronger, the fauna's now the woods to conquer. The records never misplaced, he smiles at them with his drink, "can't take my eyes off of you".

The last addition was strong in his mind; her smugness still something he could never takes his eyes off of. "Not all flowers", he smiles with a subtlety, "are for a bridal bouquet". Her love for flowers and his showering them like rivers, almost a thing of the past.

"Some unlucky ones", he stares through the sky, "reach a tombstone"; a question still lingers. His sigh now more pronounced, his words and world renounced, the depth of questions linger.

"Was I indeed the flower"; his voice now breaks a bit, his drink filling like an artery slit. "The ones she took to her bouquet, the ones she saw as a trinket", a choke now evident he goes. The lulls and chokes are frequent enough, ever since her missing a strong enough huff.

Of all the flowers that bloomed and not;
through nights and days and seasons alike.
putting between as she moved on a dyke;
smiling at me, she saw fragrance 'o nought.

The painful smiles now a reality he accepted, the cabin's time has come for the his stories excepted. "The night still is young", he smiles at his drink; tipsy never to tip o'er the brink. Another dark one passes, as her tresses he once saw, his company in spirits, and spirit to draw.

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