"Odd how easily you can forget your hand is on fire"
It is like insomnia
Creeping silently
Unnoticed
Through crevices
He wore like the sunset
Set on fire.
Fingertips char,
They become black
Like the day burning
Into a dark night
Fathomless like he was.
Pull your hand away
Yet it swells
Like his eyes
Hidden
Under the crimson
Of fiery devastation.
He remained stuck
Where strands
Of hopeless faith
Cradles candles burning
On rusted horizons.
He is nothing
Except a wasted pronoun
Fitting no where
But within the blank spaces
Of dishevelled poetry.
His eyes were fire
The more you look,
The more you burn.
His heart was ice
Freezing with every breath
You breathe on his brown chest.
How odd it is
To forget your burning soul
Soliloquy of the Nude
From brothels behind the brother's home For men(worth a whore's heart) Your lordship's denial of the worst situations lining the caverns of domesticated faith hide behind bushes of low life and heavy girth,parchment paper and the navy blue blob of darkness whispering destruction. Propagation. Dilapidation of principal fundamental technicalities of handsome donours and bottle caps worth a hundred cents. Ductility of your muse and the musings of your ductile nudity that you lie with at the end of my stories,holding my hand and everything else that you can grab under the blanket. My hair,torso,tight breasts. Don't stop. Fuming incandescent hostility reverberate through my cry. Heave. Make me. Your subordinates did it, too. So did my father. And the brother I got from him. Feathers stuck on me like the left over from the dinner on the decorated table top. Can I be your sparkling wine? I guess not. Just fragments of raw meat huddled together on your bed sheet u...
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