The Tear of The Mirror
It’s a bitter truth.
An unwelcome truth.
A truth I never planned to confess.
But I’m a poet; I wrap my truths in velvet and let the articulation slice through the cage of my heart.
The crimson silk of my soul calls out to the unknown desire of a reality.
The oxygen dances around my lungs, smelling of a sin feigning salvation.
I can hear the rain pounding the roof; the destructive harmony of the Earth’s rage.
I can hear the song of my mind; the silence of a fading essence.
I can feel the unanswered sleeping on the surface of my skin.
I wear my beauty to punish the desire that drips down their tongues.
I wear your reflection like a consequence of my serene, vain existence.
I wear my rage like a second layer of flesh, twirling down to my fingertips.
The print presses against the paper; a unique, personal interpretation of my bodily practicalities.
Written on the curved lines of my print are the words of my very being.
A moon’s craters illuminated by the dying void of my own celestial crumble.
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