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Irregular Symmetry

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Red, Revisited

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Why I'm Not a Fan of Block Descriptions

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It's What We Did

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The Other time.

I trailed the rivulets of ink that bled down my window pane

Collisions of black streams with no rhyme or reason

Nor formation of any coherent lines of meaning

I watched them ebb into puddles of nothingness

And with head held in hands I cried

Tears of sorrow and of pain, of loss

This alcove that once held colours of dream like hues

Now vacant and composed with lines of grey

Complimenting portraits framed with melancholy shades

Collective and hung in the hallways of my heart.

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One Week, Okay.

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Oblivious

I skipped in beats of two

and jumped scarlet puddles

like a child in rainfall

never knowing it was your heart -

bleeding from the sky

reigning autumn darkness

in my mind.

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Wistful.

We wrote our names in sand

and watched

as the ocean reached out

and gathered our letters

in her hand

greedily

like our dreams were chips

we lost whilst betting their longevity

on a game of remembrance.  

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The Painter and the Pickpocket

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Possession.

With the curl of your tongue another piece of me is torn apart, set aside whilst you slide ungloved hands through the tightness of my ribs, in search of my heart. I watch you lick your smirk curved lips, crimson stained finger tips paused in their exploration of my depths to trace the bow of your mouth. I watch your body contort, as if my taste is something parasitic that slides privately within you, brushing your darkest of places with it's agreeable piquancy. Time stops in this void of time - this pivotal moment. And I realize that the whispered renunciation of my control and will as owner of mine and mine alone was written in breath and signed with soul. I cannot snatch it back. I watch abandon writhe against the edges of your ascendancy with every twist of my spine from your sharpened syllables. You slowly bleed me dry of defiance till dust settles on flesh, blowing it away with the exhalation of such skilled execution. Making me anew like stripping white sheets from furnishings once forgotten.   I lay here, you - straddled on this table made of flesh and arches, painted with pigments of blush and making a feast of my submission, served on plates decorated with docility. No utensils, just hands and teeth with which to sate your hunger. Under this thought I shudder which only fuels your appetite and I silently pray, that your starvation for me is eternal.