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Rated: E · Poetry · Tragedy · #1399189
What I see in a few writers I've known--contentment in depression
we fall...for the allure of a shadow's mystique.
the siren aura of this illusion is so seductive
for a chance encounter with a harmonic composition.

the social scene is a cemetery.
residents wander, painting portraits of their rewritten past
burying every redemption beneath see-thru silver-tongued brushstrokes...
tragically hip, embracing damnation with pale joy.

every mistake is a muse
and I find these environs won't accept my substance.
hollow molds can't hold me.

In the black heart echoes of a periodic virago
witness a manikin waltz, around a broken child
Kneeling on her fragments of a forever.

i brush the surface of a three-fold tragedy, below me...
of an unyielding touch that gave way
but the center holds.

i bathe in the light to eradicate the whole aesthetic
cupping palms to catch fleeting beams and wash clean.

i offer gentle resistance to a diversion of my designs
constant in the midst of mutability

i knew...even in that former life, and still
in my hidden hand, a promise brought back from heaven
of a dream that died a second death, but not enough...i touched it.

it's glow is soft, it's all I could hold
you see, I made it.
i found a way to finding a way
of writing my dreams on starlight beams.

should you find this that you've forgotten
you read right in a sacred pledge
of forgiving and forgetting...
we can cast off the shadow.

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