Unrequited

No need for the blanket of mutual affection when undeterred by the burr of unrequited love. True love it seems is a wave of impossible dreams… the spectrum of affection being either a lotion for the emotions or sand stuck distracting one from reality. Indubitably, as things are, the setting sun spreads a pitiful pigment upon the loving unloved… the colour of regret is somewhat like periwinkle as it infects the sky, darkening as the sun hides behind the horizon :leaving those without courage to be condemned in the shade, melting into shadows, drowning in darkness and denial… at least for a while …