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The Whims of a Little Mind

It's beautiful, like the air blanketing insouciant cacophony of the city. Telephone wires swirling down the sunlit walls and ravens scaling the heavenward cobalt canvases, I peer out through the paint stained glass windows and see a little girl scolding the disobedient gray wall as a quizzical pigeon watches by. I look at her soiled locks ignorantly held into a pink headband, her clothes muddy and brown from the day's exhaustion and I realize how delicious innocence is, how flawless like the aztec patterns of the railings tinted on the gray terrace floor under twilight at dusk.

What a pity that life, eventually, drains all of it like a book of poetry put under running water...


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When the passion in my veins
becomes the poison in my blood
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I will not shrivel in sudden fear
or dissolve into a mist of a pitiable plight
For even when I die
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The way your eyes smirk at my existence
and heavy breaths sublime under hallucinating lights
The rifts of your wet lips, abhorrent and unawaiting
On mine sometimes, sometimes gone
A lover's sigh, and poet's respite,


The splash of aquamarine to my gloomy canvases.


I was a virgin canvas
your lips couldn't stain

I had waterfalls inside my chest
your eyes couldn't contain

I ached in places
your hands couldn't touch

I spoke of autumns
words couldn't adorn much

So what you loved that beauty spot
on the edge of my waist,
Alongside thrived a freckle
you had already abandoned in haste.