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Gestalt

May 21, 2017

onehundredandsixtyone

Snow on iron.
Clouds on fire.
Blood on sheets.
And painted bones.
Those places that I found you.
After you were gone.
You were never really there.
After all.
Always.
One hundred miles away.

I made a charm.
Of burning orchids.
A brew.
Of rust and milk.
A ring of crimson roses
A dress of spider’s silk.
But these weren’t garlands that you’d wear.
Shades of a truth I could no longer see.
The ice that lingered in your hair.
The way you blew across your tea.
A childish whim to pluck and scorn.
The eye from which the veil is torn.

The skirt that clung the night before.
Is cheap material on the bedroom floor.
Mascara that made your eyes so bleak.
A stain on my shoulder and dirt on your cheeks.
These are the tattered edges of our dreams.
The rim of tranquil seas.

Stars will burn and overwhelm.
Those swinging from the tree.
Who put Bella in the witching elm?
It was you as much as me.

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From → Poetry

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