She spent her mockery upon a thousand cuts
Upon a broken stem
That raised itself from her heart,
Wandering to a mirror.
For her face, she saw insects,
Not beauty.
A small mite has intruded her locks,
Full with auburn,
Among silver highlights.
Of one worn year
To a love that never gave sight to fear,
Except to an oncoming day
Of Betrayal’s betrayal,
A haunting of innumerable cuts.

Bled from open sores,
To a mirror where fractures were to her face,
The sounds of a silenced heart.
A thousand tiny cuts
Upon a stem that bloomed raven feathers
From her heart
To the mirror, before her black eyes.
Like love never tore open
To see secrets, manifold,
Open wounds, like open books,
Graven flesh, like the cripple yearning to walk
From a tomb.

Piloting backwards
To a flame that churns a future
In a past,
Life strokes the veins
Where tongues can grab satiation,
Where devils can roam their extras,
Where a man can send his son
To eclipse a hundred wars.

Beauty mimics tragedy
In the retreat of a horn,
Never the soldier.

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