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.