Mute Masterpiece

To capture the true essence of what lies behind my eyes, create a palette of black pastels portraying the shadow that follows like death - a constant visitor to my door. Nobody knows the story of my heart, an artificial anecdote of alliterative angst, bleeding in metaphorical ink stained tear drops, drowning childhood sanity in shallow rivers of bittersweet sorrow. Fate is a fragile wrecking ball, which has become too hard to love. Soul craves to be free under horizons of tangerine temptations, but all I find is twilight with a filthy feldgrau sky. Fatigue imitates the last breaths of a broken butterfly, as 'spirit' becomes imprisoned in sinister silence, yearning to sleep forever in an unfolding labyrinth, hidden from the golden colours of the sun. This smile cannot continue to pretend. Kismet is a crimson clandestine cursed talisman - speech is my harbinger of doom. Miraculous ink flutters in my pen of purification, yet not all verses are meant to be understood. Cathartic martyrdom sounds like poetry, but there is no remedy for magenta manifestations, so I curse the poetic limerence of my tongue, suppressing effervescent emotions inside a garnet treasure chest - blood-soaked, bruised and battered invisible inflictions. I'm a mute masterpiece. Drained from the pain, I told the Grim Reaper, I'm not afraid anymore, of all the lives we lived this is my favourite, but he just smiled then cried asking; "is this our last goodbye?"