25 мая 2023 г., 22:04


  Поэзия » Философская
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My heart's a ruptured dream – its pulse – a scarce event.

My skin grows feathers out of pain, I'm ready to ascend.

This void cannot be filled, these hungers can't be fed.

Immortal hopes preserve the breath that's hanging by a thread.


My clock plays quiet tunes – too shy to say 'Goodbye'.

Each one of us is nothing more than just a butterfly.

At last I will forget. Reminders make me sad.

The clock keeps ticking in my mind, I guess I'm going mad.


A canvas for this bloody mess, I'm soaked in deadly dyes.

The colour of my pain is red. Its wish — to purify.

I've loved and I am loved. But I am bound to bleed.

My climax tastes like heaven chimes. Ascend, get born... Repeat.

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