Ring
Plain emptiness,
where I touch an ebony
diamond, only gives
me edges— wiped in my
macadam; heartache an
old rust from repetitious
beats
the faceted phantasms
link, perhaps to mask
their face— or mine;
light just off within
its sides— all my
fingers stream sanguine,
no fit for the hollows
on my face, madness
glitters— and so drags
my shadow's shadow—
like far wishes took from life.
Copyright © Paige Hind | Year Posted 2023
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