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Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A demeanour equable to viridity,
The nascence of a lamb.
The supposed handsel from the welkin!

Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A swaying of a quixotic mind,
The dance from the societal crwth;
The derogation of the lamb via gibes.

Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A continual lampoon –
The spawn of a chapfallen eagle.
The brainchild of a timorous creature.

Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A diagnosis of a bird in incommunicado with flight;
A late palpation, albeit.
The societal routine…
As a child, I would write letters. No, I have never been a romantic, just a rather diplomatic child. I would write letters of negotiation to a friend of mine, burn them, and let the ashes be a legible phoenix to him.

As a child, I grew up writing letters. I stopped believing in the existence of phoenixes. Either that or my friend wasn’t really a fan of one. He was way older than I’d ever be, so I was sure it wasn’t a change of taste. It was rumoured that he preferred the savour of sconces, so I kept burning my letters.

As a child, I wrote letters in desperation. I learnt the fine line between a negotiation and a plea. I pleaded…I pleaded a lot in my letters. Do you think dried tears on paper burn too? I think my friend thought it insufficient. Either that or salt water becomes invincible above the clouds.

As a child, I wrote letters. I wrote lots of letters. I wrote letters to the only one I was sure would write back in some way. I think burning those letters wasn’t such a good idea, it made him unable to read them. Either that or he forgot changing mails was supposed to be a colloquy. He’s my friend, right? He’d have replied if he really did see them…right?

As a child, I did write letters. Then I stopped. Then, then I never wrote them again until I was forced to for grades’ sake. They are the only letters I can say I got replies to. Only difference was, for some reason, each one I wrote came back with the marks of a red pen and a word beneath it all.
I woke up…
The darker shades of the clouds became the crux.
The soot sought some soothing.
Mother finally became unease –
She puked at the amount colour she had to recycle.

I woke up…
The silence became more deafening than the cry of a banshee,
Gourmands grew some alternate appetite,
Yokels had become warriors –
The exit of envisaging begot our harangue

I woke up…
The uncoloured divagation vilipended;
The conflation of bonds of the sunk,
With past scars as its bellwether…
The sun finally begot shadows.

I woke up…
Troubadours gave soul to drumlines –
The grind for our nimble, unfed stalwart.
Bisons and kind marched –
The sequel to buried gamut.

— The End —