the aroma of romance

may i edit my self, reinvent the clause of life and the way of making it fit for me, for argument sake i will try to set the mood.


i me or what ever you choose, the weakness in me is but this ill fated misuse of the heart, who analysis others to compare the unreading pages of the future to myself, piece by piece i break up the fragments that have consumed me, smell the sweet victor of a my left over's and self.

i magnify a picture, which is only really seen by the camera's eye, underlining unity, it's course, what you can say that is me, ill gotten pleasure, that only last for the moment, and i am amongs it victims.

human nature they call it, fine prints of not only my feet but hands that are left on each mate that was and that wasn't, a bruise that lay's dorment, like love that rears it's ugly head, it's love letters that are read only in the mind, for no other can no the secret of life and it's moment's, a secret.

prepare a chapter, event it, as ourselves have no time, oh the troublesome weak passive quote of it, yes i have edited me,

always seening the fine print no other can read or as i say fail to do so, great is it, the advise the clause, that is at the end of my book, i beg, yearn, hope that it would be a good reflection of what is such, a cry in the dark.

the aroma of romance, of life, of the editing of a borrowed heart.

my painted picture.