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Mannequin of Metaphors
When the
malevolent moon
drapes
black current vines
around my neck,
etching
the blood of betrayals
in my white-whirling wings ~
I cease to scream
in sanguine sighs
within
sangria songs
of spring
when
I would wear love in lilac
and you saw me
in metallic maroons...
as in this moment,
my skin
is but a sea of scars,
sewn with
indelible stars
of dandelion damsels,
who once lost
their art of weaving hearts
in your hoaxed arcs.
And
my agony remains,
a secret
behind
wordless wisps
of breathless vultures ~
feeding
on the seeds of intuition,
sown in cursed waters ~
illuminating
insatiable infernos
within my
tulip-tinted temperence...
But, I ache to be
an apocalypse...
more than the hellfire ink
that stains your
chauvinistic cobwebs ~
threading
volcanic spells
ushered in
a storm of sepals
beneath tattoo tears
of periwinkle promises,
for you are
a mere imposter,
stranded
in ivory silks
of snowflake silence ~
gnawing upon
the merciless
manifestations,
manipulated by this
mannequin of
metaphors...
Copyright ©
Hiya Sharma
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