09-14-2018, 05:09 AM
[align=center][div style="width:400px; font-size:8.4pt;line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:3px;margin-bottom:3px;letter-spacing:0px;margin-left:0px;text-align:justify;"]Love, a rose holding upon a thin, delicate stem thorns one may never see until the fingers close about it, feel the sting as skin parts. It might have been out of ignorance, the first sip of a feeling so light and intoxicating, wrapping about the heart what seems the light of something so sweet and wondrous. Or it might have been a covering for the ache of a heart left broken, cast aside for another to pick up and dust away, uncaring that it might happen once more simply wanting.
It had come to obtain a great deal of interest over time, garnered for it proved the heart of much, a feeling shared with a readiness little could temper, seeking something from another. Words within the flowing, decorative language of poetry, the cry of others adorned in clothes made to fit the part, again and again it was performed. Yet the bitterness of the aftermath, quiet for some as the end is amicable if not welcomed or screams torn from the throat in piercing, pained tones, is hidden for who cares for such an end to a pretty story all tied up with a bow.
Upon dark side the bag struck with each step, leather beaten and stitched together, small to better fit his own undersized frame but still it dragged on him, bulging with the contents placed within. He had sought some quiet, a moment to get away from the activity contained within the rounded structure, faint hum arising from pursed lips. All too soon were plans dashed as bright gold finds those present, only one amongst their number recognised yet the way the cheetah spoke made it clear she was one of them. Moving a little closer Harland found he could not look away from the canine, left within a dishevelled state that spoke of hardship, the downtrodden look he bore enough to curl his lips into a frown.
Quickly rooting through his bag the young Guardian shuffled a little closer, settling his weight upon his hindquarters so he might reach out, a cookie clasped between his front paws.
It had come to obtain a great deal of interest over time, garnered for it proved the heart of much, a feeling shared with a readiness little could temper, seeking something from another. Words within the flowing, decorative language of poetry, the cry of others adorned in clothes made to fit the part, again and again it was performed. Yet the bitterness of the aftermath, quiet for some as the end is amicable if not welcomed or screams torn from the throat in piercing, pained tones, is hidden for who cares for such an end to a pretty story all tied up with a bow.
Upon dark side the bag struck with each step, leather beaten and stitched together, small to better fit his own undersized frame but still it dragged on him, bulging with the contents placed within. He had sought some quiet, a moment to get away from the activity contained within the rounded structure, faint hum arising from pursed lips. All too soon were plans dashed as bright gold finds those present, only one amongst their number recognised yet the way the cheetah spoke made it clear she was one of them. Moving a little closer Harland found he could not look away from the canine, left within a dishevelled state that spoke of hardship, the downtrodden look he bore enough to curl his lips into a frown.
Quickly rooting through his bag the young Guardian shuffled a little closer, settling his weight upon his hindquarters so he might reach out, a cookie clasped between his front paws.