Disharmony of the Heart

She, a candyfloss metaphor,

Skin of pièd white,

With muscles toned leather-dark,

In the mirror, looking;

Two figures, back to back,

And face to face,

As one deceitful image is formed,

A liar, tasteless in the air,

Disgraceful of herself,

A deceitful shapèd being.

Beauty held in her beholder-

Disgust- a nested expression grown

From jealousy, comparison;

Features charring as the heart

Begins its slow descent,

Yet all concealed between the palms,

Nobler shown outwards,

Nothing more than rumours left.

She, explosion in a mattress factory,

Speaks in grumbles,

Without changing what is able;

If she desires time’s upon,

She would not for one minute more.

The sultry speakers, bitter words,

Tainting her pretension,

Once kept her glasses clean,

Now paints them with own blood,

The separate desire within, deadly,

Is eroding the shade without;

Disharmony of the heart,

When the beats defy the rhythm,

And the pain will pour out,

Explosion bottle-tops and brassieres,

All too common when she breathes,

Inside, however, the neat deceives.

Now the piercing

Ashes of the past are faking,

Sinking to a place

Where she, of bitter decision,

Is left to set

And left to flounder,

In a dirtied state of mind,

Her bed no more rotting,

Than the decency of humanity’s flesh.

The End

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