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Rated: E · Poetry · Arts · #2211446
whilst the stars sang lullabies for my rotting soul and the moon made art out of her muse

Crystalline. So candidly glimmering like
molten moondust, laced with the tears of
the shooting stars I’d collected on my
path to loving you. I’d made art out of those
mere stardust-glazed pearls, dipping my
dampened brush in and holding it above the
yet unpainted canvas which the moonlight
kisses so tenderly. And it dripped just like
the way my own tears fell, streaking my
cheeks obscured by the concealed secrets
off the profound night. Princely and majestic
form standing so ethereally in the silky
starlight, a comforting form cut out in the
moonbeams. Ebony locks adorned with
endless lunar kisses, star-woven skin
gleaming with untouched pearlescences -
you yourself are the opalescence refulgent
with a sheen that made any other
luminaries seem insignificant.

My brush did not seem to require
paint any longer, for my despondently
hopeless tears sufficed to veil the
entirety of the canvas which now looked
extremely minuscule compared to the
vast expanse of the disturbed misery
enclosed within my heart - your irises
mirroring it, withholding sempiternal
paradisiacal realms lush with flowing
rivers of dulcet wonders, celestial
chateaus with palettes opulent with hues
of gentle aureate, dainty petals with
smiling effervescences.

Only my tears were
the neglected ones
that you never forgot
to marvel upon.
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