Paper Genocide And Bleeding Hearts

The words blur like early-morning clouds,

They dance across the page,

Like cheerful yet raging flames devouring the arms of a cross,

Burning in sleeves of charred red-black tattoo.


Fraying yellow-white knots of ripped-out pages,

Lie in the cold ashes of their cremated paper family,

Silent mourning, ink slithering in tear-tracks,

Awaiting a similiar fate, genocide.


I watch souls die as they are drowned in a bottle,

I witness them blown away in wisps of silver smoke,

Life grinds hearts into a fine powder underfoot,

And erodes every mind.


But the ashes of my bruised and bleeding heart,

My faithless soul,

My madness-ravaged mind,

Are scattered and discarded among the pages of this book.




The End

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