On Her Hand It Was Written

Strip yourself naked – it was written on mother’s hand,
To the orchestra playing the waltz of death,
Dance your life away on the porcelain floor,
Let the bloodshed plant itself in your hollow bones
And rise from the fissures a dead child shall
With a redefining posture to the grapefruit moon,
Mirth tied down his spine,
Never again to be discovered, once more.

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About whatsername

Sadness somehow squeezed itself into this decomposed heart of mine and as soon as it stepped into the lonely rooms of my soul all doors shut bringing home a present of infinite winter. A legend once said to paint beamish words on a piece of paper so sadness may find it's place on a shelf between made up stories and ring the truth of infinite sadness. View all posts by whatsername

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