What had this furious one won through mischievous deeds?
A soliloquy of sorrow, borrowed blue, an intense void.
She appeared on a whim on a moonless night.
Her hair, golden silk, shielding saddened eyes.
It was just an act; no impending fate.
Once the tears and blood had dried
I tried to understand.
But by then, borrowed blue, it was much too late…
“Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” – David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature