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all mine, all mine—
in this Elysian
castle of glass
made of nightly
wishes and tears—
princesses, knights,
kings, queens,
jack of all trades,
Johannes factotum—

you are all mine—
all mine!
you are all mine.
sunday morning
and belly unfilled still,
what's for breakfast?

view of the shadows,
wandering pair of
green eyes and
a dying rocky brain
wondering

why am i still here
in a virtual garden
full of calla lilies?
calla lily is a symbol of magnificence aka that's not me. not even close to that. and i'm insecure.
sitting pretty
awaiting their steeping tea,
whilst Ophelia hugged the trees
near the crystal clear resting rivers.
everyone loves a good cup of tea, even when someone left the earth.
is this dreary dormancy, or is this death?
for the candle's counting and fire's fading,
the bulb's broken and the light's leaving—
in the silence of makeshift soul sepulchre
i pictured those two angels weeping.
am i dormant, or am i dead? where's the old me? why am i growing backwards? why am i lost? i am now failing child, aren't i?
'tis the time where
pink roses lost colour
and laurel wreaths wilt;
old glory a mere story,
the Reaper rests under
weathered oaks and
cut cypresses;
watching foxgloves
and wormwoods grow
as I lie awake bleeding
with the amaranths.
trying (hard) to write in the language of flowers and plants.
the sun is waiting—
saturated grey curtains
stuck lovingly, still
the sun can't get their turn.
we are thespians in a masquerade,
spilling our thousand acts of charade
whilst the soul bleeds on a blade
yet we float, neither alive nor dead.

we are dolls in a tea party,
choking on liquid vacuity
our heads a barren ghost city
nameless, aimless, brimming pity.

our middle name is empty.
i don't even know what this means besides a complete void. seriously. my head and my poetry account are almost dead.
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