Feb. 12, 2010
The Debut:
The hearts you place in your eyes are deceivingly sublime. Stop those claws from the pearl of your skin. Take instead the bite of your lips to make accounts of the smiles you receive (ignore the pity). Wear it like badges upon your chest, but on your wrist.
The Silent Ball:
The pallor of your skin is not envied, Belle. The horrors of your nights are not hidden, and yet not horrifying. The whispers that ring your bells and shake your tea cups isn't gossiping Jealous, and the white room isn't encased in rose thorns (bending in coquette curiosity).
The Fall of the Midnight Hour:
Hence to your image in the ripples of the lake, and just as humble humility comes - it comes too late. The rose petals have fallen and the frozen pool has stolen your image. Hiding it in copious dew.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
its just so very sublime, really, loved reading your writings after such a long time...feels vry symphonic
Maybe, if all people but you and me disappeared from the world in an instant, then there would be no need to be vain, just the sheer knowledge that there was only ONE other humain perception of you, a perception that would put an end to all poetry forever...
Wouldn't we get bored, and needy?
Post a Comment