|
| |
Shall I peer into my looking glass, my darling?
I stare at the girl through my looking glass.
In her smile, self-deprecation sighs.
Voices in her head whisper chaos,
as she screams internally for attention,
begging any deity above to save her.
Oh dear, doesn't she know?
The looking glass might just crack,
from a world where fight becomes flight.
She enforces principles of modesty in clothing-
but is modesty the only veil it covers?
An intention battles with a desperation to hide.
Such is the nature of a colourless chameleon,
a spirit that she resonates with deeply.
Desolated realities claim her of their own:
an incessant prompt of a fallen angel,
breaking herself for the broken is inexorable
It's a broken bargain she doesn't choose,
but to be loved, is to be chosen.
She articulates herself yet she succumbs,
maladaptive daydreaming paradoxes her sense.
She writhes in anguish-
a masterful tragedy of her own scripting.
It's funny how one contradicts their beliefs,
though expectations are destined to shatter.
She was a book:
lovely words scripted in her eyes,
meant to be read, but left unsaid.
They chose a dyslexic path,
wearing blind irises as if it were a trophy.
Perhaps tragedies are inevitable intricacies?-
meant to be created and destroy you in the process.
The looking glass cracks.
I reach my hand out to save her.
But oh, how she masks herself in the shadows!
Familiarity of a saying: "addiction kills",
begs me to decipher if we were born to die.
Oh the girl in the looking glass,
she has a certified doctorate in application,
relapsing to fleeting dreams and nightmares.
Shall I peer into my looking glass, my darling?
Copyright ©
Rowha Syed
|
|