Diplomat, a crafty word for someone so sinister. To politely abandon all excuses to the hierarchy you assume. I find it staunchly irritating, the meandering of false testimonies and carrying ons of poetic liabilities and self presumed realities. You only attain the senses you fortify, as all of mine have gone seeking to mush. A fearful tactic is only as benign as it's followers, it's refugees, and it's swordsmen. Should it be such a discrepancy? That the human mind wills itself to the force that brings upon man a detrimental fall? Your heart is but another to own, another to will, another to ring the callous and fetching ghouls amongst it's bearing. With every clench of your fist you deteriorate a colony at its feet, for your sake, just for the bereavement of such an emotion you so hauntingly grasp.
Kind swordsman, you are but another. Another to own, another to seek and find and fetch and kill.

To live out that which causes me grief, only to attain a circumstance or standard that dishevels me forthwith, I have acquired only ruin. Upon a fixation of better judgment, I scarcely feel worry to betroth the feelings that cake upon my soul to daunt themselves entirely. Dispatched to the bearings, my better half must not know of the anguish you reside in me, my thoughts, the echoes that resound inside my only mind of chance. I seek to pertain in some way to the level at which you have been placed, by birth, but I am but a brittle stone, a frail, tapered flower in a field of poppies and amassed to the wondering of a peace you guide. You can tempt me; you can delve into the very being that I am with but a glance. Without words, without sound or meaning, and just a look to free all of the restrictions I bestow. You never were a soul but a whisper and I never discounted you to be such, no, you did that to yourself.

You torture me, my mind, my body, into oblivion. How can I face thee that rectifies me, speak to me a quiet voice, speak to me the whispers in your soul. Slowly casting the spells you sake to the fixation of a truth. A menace, lowly keeping a fright. Pledges of candor, a meager finding to a best. While the shameful lies I carve writhe and swiftly lean to a fuller path, I cry the ways I can exist. Why is the only pace to be a catch of the earth to be a hoax. Pity, little creature to know a ways her heart cannot feel. To know that the breath she breathes is her imagination, her desire to will the force of the evening to manifest it's calling. Placing words in her mouth you gild the meaning a front.