Flow my teares fall from your springs,
Exilde for ever: Let me morne
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorne.

Downe vaine lights shine you no more,
No nights are dark enough for those
That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore,
Light doth but shame disclose.

Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pittie is fled,
And teares, and sighes, and grones
My wearie days of all joyes have deprived.

From the highest spire of contentment,
My fortune is throwne,
And feare, and griefe, and paine
For my deserts, are my hopes since hope is gone.

Hark you shadowes that in darnesse dwell,
Learn to contemne light,
Happy that in hell
Feele not the worlds despite.

332492011

There is something different in the air. An essence that speaks the truth, and harangues me the sorrow. 
It feels as if I am really close to finding what I so long have been looking for. But not quite yet. Not yet.


The night is always as young to me, and never perishes. Drunken or just lonely, I sing with her my faults.
And I shout to the universe that I may have failed. I may have gotten lost and never trully found.
The response is that I have to live this alone and always lacking half of me.




Now I do not shout, plainly I watch my mind fall apart and come to place again. And maybe sometimes I cry. a tear or two, for what I was told I always wanted but could never have.


I learn that sadness now has colours and I see it always crushes you, the way only you could hurt yourself.
Yet, I choose the blade. I know my scars are made from me, for me.

only now I find myself

Hans Makart (May 28, 1840 - October 3, 1884)