Living In Wax Palace


Absolutely pure,
I would not believe, until
a dark spot
appears on your cheek.

The petals now split
into rays, as in marigold
dividing the sun―
between the eyes.

I look through the stains
now, wearing the blanket
of moon, mottled but silvery cool.
I do not mind to accommodate
the pain of dark sky.

The true words now
stumble out. Give me some
tears to wash the face
of my poem.

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Living In Wax Palace