Exsanguination exsiccates my sense of standing, granulated by these fervent images emanating before me. Never, in a quintillion sand bottles, strewn amiss a battlefield, would I sever my love for this temple. A view from mine own heart permeates a lackluster of disdainment bedraggled by loss. This home is my beatitude, blissfully wrapped and protected: as if held in the womb, or confines, of a woman's belly. My existence, concerning solicitude, within these old, (well aged walls) reveals an outward devotion to it's solemnity, and integrity.
I find no calm in the storm to come.
Semblance, and her book, replete with bright autumn memories subsumes me. I am mesmerized! Observing the lambent luminosity our bright white, yellow star exudes upon this place. The beautiful wooden oak flooring has seen aplenty owners, throughout her life. But only one, these past six years, has kissed the coating (protecting the layer of wood): attenuating the suns rays, and ironically emanating its solar energy. As if photosynthetically giving it life. Vital to my sanity.
I shall long for, in time, the possessions that held me. Momentarily, and possibly forever I am a greek tragedy in myth. Like Actaeon the Hunter! Converted to a stag and hence slain by the very hounds he breath: all for eyeing the nakedness of Artemis.
I have gazed upon the barren, disrobed tent, of my domicilic domain. And the very soothing degree of pain that passions me dismally, is it's inevitable loss to a forclosed time.
All is lost! But I will rebuild. I shall return. And Spike shall run these very walls again.
I promise!!
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