Lying against this bed of pines and shriveled stones
I have come to the conclusion
That life is inevitably sweet and divine yet treacherously pure.
Events dancing like broken leaves and bits of soot and brown
falling against the ground, welding into place.
Skies drifting about like mangled tongues stripped and devoured
Thrown against and through,
A greenish ritual of utmost callousness and grace.
I lie thereby as but a yearning heart sprawled over like a corpse
Hanging from a bridge, hands nailed to the concrete
Yet bleeding scarlet cause and not boiled reason.
I am but a stringed mass, a pale sarcoid body lurking about,
Distant from others by lunges and clouds of colorless virgin terrain.
Lying here alone as one, as a composite whole, a singular projection.
Yet, somehow, we all seem to evoke this crude frailty and tenderness.
We are all somewhat of able-bodied streams of ire.
Prussian blue shades of boisterous life.
Lax and lustrous shades of death.
Shrewd and wine-like shades of time.
An aging pack of tinted blotches.
A withered, elegant frame.
And a painting of stars and flames waltzing about,
filling each others missing pieces
like a liquid so generously takes the shape of its container.
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