The petals flutter
In the romance of
Torture and disgust.
The secretion of shy;
The omnipotent illusions –
Fragile yet fatal –
Hung from the shallowed
Walls of what she claimed her
Her pre-existing struggle
At the gates of her wretched belief –
And above all else –
Refuses everything but
Her existence within the
Deep lacerated
Of her own
Only then,
Can the formidable
Solitude break apart the
Fabric of her
Quilted continuum;
The ones she truly
Forever lost
Within her curious sight...
The sprouted seed only conceives
The foresight of what she
Entails as her
Moral beliefs.
Her dark nature
Can strep the paint
And stagger a new
Colour within the
Pigments of partisanship.
Her endeavoured retreat –
A fine and dull representation –
An equilibrium,
But for the corrupted
Mentally motioned...
Her grotesque ways of
Citizenship –
Such delicacy;
Such horror;
Such perplexity –
Thy flower,
Only allowed a certain
At a certain opportune –
Her only choice –
To follow the voice within
The cracks of her
Rusted and condemned soul –
Her taste of deceition;
Her taste of depression;
Her taste; tasteless
'alone' –
For the water flows endlessly,
Around the bounds,
Around the realisation,
And around the foot
Of a distressed
And dead
But never


by Nathaniel Graves

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Comments (1)

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