The Basket of Lonely Clichés

I imagine a waste bin of discarded clichés,abandoned and left on their own to fester

This essay is about striking
blue eyes once upon,
a time when hell
freezes over a picture worth
a thousand words as delicate as
a porcelain doll wishing
on a falling star of mice,
and men running,
for their lives fly.
Over the moon roses,
are red beautiful sunsets all over?
The map made of money
he’s scared of. His own
shadow on the house slipped.
My mind still waters. Run
deep when it rains; it pours
after you. If it doesn't,
kill me. It makes me
stronger butterflies. In your
stomach I’ll be waiting.