WavesofChaos

To touch is to love, to love is to live Is this, perchance, where my dilemma lies? If one cannot touch, one cannot love And if one cannot love, one cannot truly live That emptiness that ravages my soul The bleakness that rends all my happiness The overbearing sense of lack and loss Is it this flaw of mine that is to blame? It's not as though I'm neglected For I'm surrounded by affection day in and day out And yet, despite this sea of platonic and familial love I freeze up, flinch, at the slightest touch Could it be that this single problem is the cause Of so many others that afflict my life Maybe it is... Maybe it isn't... May

I walk along the edge of the road in silence None walks alongside me, for I am alone No family, no friends, no loved ones To share my lonely path or heavy burden Oh, how I love the open road The wind making my hair billow behind me The sun warming my face with its gentle light The coolness of the rain after a long drought And the stout earth standing firm beneath my feet Here, none shall hate or fear me Because of that which I can see Death, destruction, turmoil All these things I have seen in my dreams Some call me a prophet Others call me a monster I've been told all oracles experience such But is that supposed to make the t

 Snow crunches underfoot as I weave through the alleyways. Snow is falling lightly from above-it's winter, and the holiday season if I remember correctly. People will be out and about this day, despite the weather, so I will have to be even more cautious than normal not to be seen. My quarry has passed through here, not more than an hour ago. The scent of burning stone still lingers on the air. To my nose, it is completely separate from the stench of cigarettes and the small fires the homeless have lit using paper waste for the purpose of keeping warm. None of the shady-looking thugs I pass can tell the difference, but they have mere mortal

 I am silence. I am invisibility. I am precision. I am gracefulness. Quiet is the forest in the morning, the sun still concealed beyond the ever-distant horizon. The morning mists blanket the land, and the monotonous veil makes the green of the trees and shrubs more vivid than any other time of the day. Dew covers the grass, the bushes, the vines, and the trees, and the individual droplets twinkle ever so slightly in the half-light before the dawn. A twig snaps. A doe. She walks with the grace of an animal that knows these forest paths by heart. The fog does not bother her-what her eyes cannot see, her ears will hear, or her nose