and then
you look for
a way to
peel off your skin,
a candlestick
and a rusted
blade beside
the matchbox
because the
dreams were
too magnificent for
you to ever
grow into,
so you lie
beside it
in a corner,
let it pour out
like wandering
silver mist
from a stranger’s
lost cigarette,
too exhausted
to be another
teeming with
like a writer’s
old notebook
that still smells
of old lavender
and almost
unused lipstick
and tear drops
and ink blots
and almost
unnoticed mistakes
and a little
too much sentiment,
outlawed by time,
ripped out
like a reluctant
heartful of stifling
frustration and
with sarcastic
like gravel
that once
hoped to
be a sculpture
in an ancient
museum of fine arts,
because, y’know,
is fine
until it’s gone;
shine bright;
dead stars
were born in
the wrong
galaxy; dead
people were
merely unlucky.

T. E. Pyrus


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