Is loyalty a noun?
What does it look like?
Is it green and pure and sweetly scented? Is it warm? Is it soft? Like a puppy that is ready to greet you and caress your fears with licks of the tongue to your salty exterior?
Or is it more of a small, microscopic, cancerous and conniving virus that attacks every square centimeter of your mind as your denial begins to diminish while you question its existence?
It seems that the more cynical question runs substantially more parallel to my line of thinking. Like trains racing on a track that forget about friction. Just lights, sirens, panning the sounds from ear to ear driving you FUCKING crazy.
It’s a word that is very much conditional upon one’s own agenda.
And when this trickery shows its ugly face, the one who births it immediately dies. Although it lurks from time to time and trickles through scenes of the memory, it’s accompanied by a dark orchestra of reminders illustrating why the stem must be broken.
Are you a friend? Or are you just a beating heart that accompanies another as long as it’s comfortable?
What would you do for the ones you love?
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