Unfinished

The mind reaches, its pointed point perforates the shell by the volume of each word and the imagination of will. Sifted by the autumn breeze, the softness of your hair arrows-deep the sting of self-abhorrence upon a troubled heart. Yet hope tightens the grip and blood seeps upon the ground, reflected in the shadow of the moon. A ghostly organism shining in the periphery of lust.