maybe that was all a mirage,
your entire being on the palm of my hand.
maybe that was all a mirage, your pale white skin under the touch of my fingertips, as i traced the scarred, the marks on your skin like a fragile art, a canvas of blue and red and grey oil paints.
you taught me how to make the devils weep and the stars rattle. i tried to convince myself that you trapped me under your ensorcellment when you look at me with those pair of moonlight eyes, but that was not the case, wasn't it?
i was selfish, so i bathed you again and again and again with lava molten nectar of my sins that were too hot, too much for you, just to crack your porcelain skin and pour me the secret of your entire being, so i'd understand the meaning behind those warm addicting glassy gaze you adorned me with.
though i forgot that you're hypocrisy embodied, a midst of fury inside your golden cage, wrapped by the smell of melancholy and sad eyes.
and it was lost upon my foolish mind, why those voids spilled from your lips like clusters of falling stars?
maybe that was all a mirage,
your entire being on the palm of my hands.
YOU ARE READING
THE LOVERS
Poetryboth weep for the thorns in their skulls when the sun is killed and summer has gone by and the rain is acidic. tragic is they are mortals, and mortals are made of greed and unholy prayers.
