Sword

Beautiful individuality

Divides the ambitions.

You look so sweet on that scale,

Like a prominent postcard sent from Milan

Or Rome.

 

Should I say my consistence is waning?

When I look down,

You are all I see.

Golden memories of regret.

Perhaps this was the most excruciating move

I could ever do with my hand;

To touch you,

Feel you come alive beneath my fingers.

I should stay and beg you for staying as well,

 

But your heart has other ways to tread

And the path denies the blood.

So do we.

Or they.

Them.

The others.

I do not.

 

I know now

What sweet revelation the blood hides and

Why I shy away

Whenever I touch you.

 

Sudden ambitions reach my

Level of prosperity.

A silence intervening with

The thoughts of a stranger.

 

How do you feel now?

Satisfied?

Saved?

 

Consumed in thoughts of a thousand tears,

Stinging the cheeks of those

You have hurt so badly?

Admit it,

You should admit it,

Or else I will speak for you.

 

A white wasteland

Covered in shimmery divinity;

Whiteness and purity

Gold without being worth a penny.

 

There is no such thing

As my friend,

Who follows me everywhere,

Seeing the things such as I do.

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