Fleeting Tongue

 With that needle of a tongue
Impale my pride so playfully,
As there is no care without fear,
Both of which is not a quality,
But a skill, so crafted and grown.

Sing me please your doxology,
I see what has been drawn on your door
Every dawn that breaks,
Never fixed, but broken again and again,
Regret lives in your face, it's painted by hands
Black again, like a stone, not yet sand,
And somehow a beautiful garden of sorrow;
The rose in your mouth tastes so bitter,
My blood has mixed with yours now, daughter,
And I have begun to climb inside,
How your mind is an entrapment wonder.

I feel myself eaten, while still alive,
All my power has been blown asunder,
All these colours, you've collected through time,
I scream as they begin to blind my eyes,
My gift is ripped from me like innocence
I never knew I had, is it always the way?

A ghost of the mind; once known, it hides,
I lose myself in time, like in grasping grass,
Above my head, engulfed in the eager blades,
Yet no pardon prescribed for these crimes of a wasted life.


The End

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