Leaving seconds comfortable
In every fallen syllable
Of a lie,
Dancing in sweetest comfort,
Making music of laughter
Birthed by false mirth,
As her hair glides to shoulder-top,
While her fingers stain her lips
With the red rouge
Of a thousand misguided summers.

For what she bleeds
Is nothing outside,
Marking where she may step
Is to measure the path where lava treads.
Like heat is there for her deceit,
With a frozen heart, to make the clock start
On an endless journey, backwards.

Music is the honey
Of her cries, to wherever such tears
Are forged,
While she blankets the song,
Makes the midnight hour
Tag along.

Love knows nothing
Of her,
As all but faded words
To cruelty’s gesture.

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