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Rox Jul 14
Edges,
Edges.

Is it all about edges?

Do the borders arround me define how you're meant to treat me?

I look outwards,
Not purposely

Sometimes you glance at the shadows
undearneath all of those flowers

But when I see,
Her edges treated so softly

Angels feathers

Surrounded
Like a halo

A little piece of me
Feels angry

Is it me?
I wonder

Is it my edges?

I don't like to see myself
Tasting colours

I'm soft -
Like her too

So why is it
I sit here

In a field of yellow
by myself

Self-made

Something everyone
always applauds

why?

Does it feel so much smaller
than a halo
made by everyone else
Rox Jul 12
Dear sunshine, what is it like
to stare below,

to look
and watch over the big blue sky that everyone has above them?

You see all
the rivers dancing and storm clouds brewing

steady downpour
trickling through the grooves of my frailed hands

overly drawn,
the imagination of what it is to “love”

to be in love;

without an inch of doubt
cocooning.

Like disparity under these moth eaten sheets.

Corners of a room creeping with things' too tediously acknowledged,

the polite stare to an old acquaintance

tolerated

unconsciousness.

Pleading with
every bright declaration

for the rotted floorboards to break away,

breathing in where that blue sky hasn’t touched in what feels like decades.

A declaration,

a primitive dedication to one whom is but an illusory mirror of your own perception.

A dull tasting lie.
for the singular touch of a singular person in every moment of your conscious existence.
Rox Jul 2019
Apologies

Like a cloud, overhanging
the colour blue,

where we lie
maybe not,

those residing words, written out
after a night once again.

Left alone, always
the colour blue.

Draining roses,
in minutes staining

I'm blushing,
you're vacant

it's day again.

Littering nameless things
breath in draft

Intrepid,
naked anatomy
sticky with vapour

and the subversion of
my smile,
inspirited between us

where spring lives
in the transitory skies

just like a kiss
goodnight,

goodbye.

Blue
The colour of you.
Rox Apr 2019
I
love
robots.

The cold that wafts off
bolted broad shoulders

Hydraulic blood

Never does a pin drop

When a robot talks to me
I don't touch

There's never a glance into a strangers heart

For it
Is made
of metal parts

One could say hello
As one could say goodbye

As if the hollow chambers never echoed

I
love
robots.

For they do not stain
An imprint on my brain

With humans hands
and human smiles

Alone they stand

Where for awhile I could stare
And simply walk away
as there is nothing to let go of.
Rox Apr 2019
Violet Valley
Violent Valley

In unison
a painted progression
possession

Seen to the point of intrusion

Illusive
In a cloak of mercenary wander
A violet valley
of a crimson dawn

Drawn from scarlet billows

Where I seethe
Into a prison I saw
A vision blurred from yours

Under the heath of an adolescence
comes a lapse of time
in a spiritless essence

Godless

Unsheathing itself
In the beds of silence
the voice of a cobalt rebellion

Freedom stricken
Gaslit onto your lips

The index of incendiary

Rearing fruits of wonder
Where knowledge is set without bound
born from the dusk
of a violet valley

No truth knows where it has risen
For curiosity is kept unkempt
inside obscure tides

of thought from yours to mine.
Rox Oct 2018
Diacridic
He lays
While the leaves sit underneath
the brilliance of sincerities tree,

and thinking to you
were all the things done by.

As it were
Discriptless
Pages left turned and inkless
What's left behind inside
the minds of an intertwining summer
a conclusion predesignated.

I saw to you,
just as I waved hello to goodnight’s moon.
As they touched along the surfaces
fleeting into the skin
A welcomed wound.

And didn’t you know,
That the pictures I stole
Of every point of you
Were etching onto sheets of heaven
into the reflections of the mirrors
that sit before your bedside.

While it rests
with mixed spirits,
the roses that I bore

Passing through glowing bodies
are the images you started to dream with me
while the silences burrow

A judgement left only partially bridged.
Melded with the manifestation of adoptions quest

And as the calls ring in secluce,
I still feel that this alley is ghostless
Lest this vase breathe the life
of unwilted flowers

where the flip sides meet
on the evenings tides
joined by charmed indifferences

in company with the character
of an old flame,
only tangible with
lights which lay ahead.

medleyed in to what's to be.

Thank you.
Rox Jul 2018
Below the surfaceless
looking above
under the furls of wavering clouds
all you'd see is that untouched stare
an absence of warmth disclosed
elapsing over,
collapsing over
you

Shallows edges so elusive,
as obscure as a serpents nest
anonymous as the rest,
intrusive like these dated feelings

and yet those eyes like minds wander
wonder as if it's ever been to lie beyond
those gated passages to Edens flowers
a pocket of hours been laid before you,

Ghosts.

And the continuance to roam
inside of these channels
left empty and vacuous

so out of depth,
with filtering essence of memory
faltering lights of ambiguity,
letting the pieces drip upwards

you’re alone together with what ties are to be had
you speak as through the pith
of this insecurity,
the plight of this immaturity

a footstep in the waters
spilling from your tongue.

Venture from the beginning
a start to finish
as though time bounded in ripples
your tinted sight lines
undesigned and impalpable
even through strategy

under the palms, your hands,
the happens mind of another kind,
settling not in stones but
in sands
a habitual mess of ingraining
always draining and seeping

never enclosing,
fostered only by a feint solace
in the flooded catacombs of yours.

A participance of midnights moons
in these swimming conversations,
cycled discussions
the rising tides of snake eyes
with one onerous touch
submerging your voice

into a fragmented drowse

burning notes left from pictures
choking out all that swirls
the delirious magnetism of weight that pulls to you
creating an astringent terrain,
as your blood is spilling down

a pipeless drain.

A manifestation of ego's brain bubbling down
under the masque of self-worth and integrity
into a thick mud
painted with entitlement

across a dotted line

the deeds of your fascinations
possessions to another
inclinations unbeknownst to you,
against the black skies
opposing truths of deflection

you find yourself with silkless ink
writing what you think it to be
beyond your skin

and the closer the pen drips
the tighter the bolts become
on the grips over your perception
a darker rainstorm

straining out
lifelessly.

Pressure slowly eased
into soothful washing
though cliffs eroded from memory

cresting the hall
that remains beneath

as a little boy
with glassless eyes
and a mouth full
of rose thorns,

Greeting you

To the welcomes of goodbyes,
until the shrill whispers
of the sirens of deception call you

once more

threading over your faces
elapsing the rims of reality,
overgrowing its garden
into a shipwrecked valley

warped by tainted reveries.
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