Author: Dee Dub PM
Hmm...cliche, cliche. Sort of a writer's block, I suppose.Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 176 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 08-08-05 - id: 1981184
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The tear running down my wrist,
gray prisms of mascara reflecting,
(the only beauty ever revealed to it).
no, not beautiful.
It never is.
The romance of it is a myth.
Like the truths
promised by charcoal,
they burn towards the standing
of brittle remnants,
of forgotten empires,
and the feather headdress.
It is visceral, but exists
no, not warlike
nor hesitant. Unlike
the destined pitfalls,
the marriages. They are conscious.
Time represents them,
More arduous knowledge.
It is submerged perpetually,
the submission mothers the brutality.
It is dumb like me,
I only memorize. The parrot
My mind holds no glory in functioning.
It occurs in plates
that shatter and quake.
They ululate all the while.
facts on maps, looming like towers
on the once flat land. Eyes incandescent like greased stepping stones,
they ascend towards the moon like humans,
while they make their
to slavery, forgetting the mathematics
The submission is the twofold path
of misery, god, and godliness.