This house is cursed
It's four walls of hell...
She is a rescued moth morphing
under a sheet of stars navigating...
I remember,
Crimson lines in criss-cross pattern...
I sit here in lament, my heart
burns faster than oil on fire...
Death is the only friend i have
why do i not feel comfort when shes around...
Interfering into harmony and thinking
of a script to write...
I yearn never to do wrong
But am always dancing to the devil's gong...
What else would a metaphor
do, except for adding a color...
Proudly ineffective;
worn like a stitch of old wool...
I nestle between seams of an overripe night
while nibbling on peony seeds...
It was then when you told me, you loved me
You who took my first kiss...
As I stand here,
I can feel droplets on my incongruous skin...