it was merely a tree

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she was a mesmeric geisha
she walked as rays of sunlight
filtered through the trees
onto her almond silken skin
like fresh chamomile tree milk
that's aroma filled the house

with honey eucalyptus nostalgia
her fallacy was adorned in
delicate silk worms
finding their own agapism

that lay past the
drunken angelfish
that come to her for comity
but in her heart
beauteous veins

filled with lacuna and alexithymia
play songs on a broken Shamisen
that creates pools
of unrequited desire

that turns into a tsunami
of fractured awareness
of the passing moments of life

she burned in that place
deemed a flower town
but no bees came to pollinate it

but it was only a cemetery of
souls with acidic passion
that possessed no spines of their own adversity

but her memoir of a spine
laced in Cherry Blossoms
who's thirst expands to the Nile
was found hanging by the tree

of elan tranquility
where she used to play hide and seek
before the sun stole her innocence

and melted her into
molten aeipathy candle wax

AN//So this was just a little drabble inspired by the rise of suicide rates in East Asian countries. I wanted to connect it to the times of the geishas, because many girls were forced to grow up too fast and lose themselves in the process. Many of these stories go unheard. So I just wanted to bring awareness to the fact that everyday they had to fit into this criteria that society made them mold into, which isn't any different as it is today.

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