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Wrinkled Rose
The moon is a wrinkled rose, quenched in quartz tears,
and I taste the citrus scent of russet rain~
from the heart of his crown, embroidered with fears,
while stars weave wishes across the astral plane.
But what if sage streaks of lunar-dusted spheres,
wrap my warm soul with twinkling trinkets in vain?
Would I then find constellations of fireflies,
be the true maiden to gothic ruffled skies?
Copyright ©
Ink Empress
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