Patchwork Pain

Like patchwork, did the brownish-black

Fade onto pearlescent face,

Scarred in some moonlight pale,

And cratered within a hollow soul:

Past and mottled pain.

Methodologically counting, wondering

After evils as they drift into the shapes

Of visions: chairs overturning,

Slamming books, the fury of a headache.

All these are iron chokers:

Black mirrors echo,

Shatter with such a reflection of debt,

To the undeserved takes time, takes

The subsequent distraught.

It is, that imperfect face, an

Inhuman mask, interlocking figures

At the growth of interlocking

Villainies; as such marks of sleepless

Nights flow on and on,

Day to day passing in a rush of tireless

Tears falling. Patchwork-

It is not beauty, but madness.

The End

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