It's this insane love that got me burnt;
Something crazily beautiful yet stormy.
I'm yet to die beautiful
in the moonlit grave.
This town's swelling in pain—
unfathomable hours.
I can't keep floating on pink dreams;
the silence's too much to bear
under the dripping honey sunshine.
The air smells of cold death.
Burning masks at the faraway hill.
Humans
are way more beautiful
behind the glittery masks.
I try to look at the world through it:
Dying embers burning alive on a beige-shaded day,
and I'm walking dead on bloodied scents.
Maybe, that's how things work
behind the silver and gold beaded masks.
Crushing beauty upon blackened bodies.
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A/N: No matter what, masks are pretty. Let's vote for them (and our narrator, haha).
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||