To Love With Curse: A letter Untold
16/9/26
I’m a poet, I held a curse written in my veins. Tangled by threads even fate refuses to wave. A soldier wounded in battles only existing inside thy heart. A flesh bound to fall for a soul deeper than the ocean itself.
What a curse it is to capture your beauty in the hands of death. You live by name, yet die when mumbles forgotten cries. The stories you held are not fairy tales in wonderland, but scriptures buried by your own hand.
Get Threads of Ink’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
You are the very being a poet is cursed to possess only in pages; more than a home, less than a cage. A desire met with laughable satire.
Such a selfish urge to pull you away from the rest of the world. And I, a poet, shall hide you so well in my poems. That they may know your warmth and cold, but not you — that I refuse to name.
I will be hunting for you; until my ink runs dry and my pages crumble, until my hands bleed and my words are stumbled. YOU will be my curse, and I will be your willing victim.
In the end of my written chapters that were forgotten, I will continue to hum a rhythm that would give melody to our uneased souls.
Sincerely,
Threads of Ink
