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Isaiah Rude Feb 22
Golden and shining, reflecting stardust
only stardust, for the pious chosen,
sits the mirror pretty, but without ****,
perfectly shaped behind walls of crimson.
Visitors, flocking company, crowded
my halls, too loud as stubborn men pouted
so they touched, tainted my work un-shrouded.
Gold to fool's gold, I kicked, begged and shouted.
At some point they parted. They left me cold.
They ripped the color from under my eyes,
my feelings little toys to break and mold
'til the bits are too small to compromise.
I don't know whether I'm dead or alive,
but I know I'm not wanted, so goodbye.
Isaiah Rude Feb 17
A flutter, then two, then airbound
It’s beastly, the flock, and takes form
White feathers, chaos, they rain down
Pretty shapes, patterns, so performed.
Its white wall taunted her, the poor green dove
Her poor tears stain one more, she doesn’t see
And every bird she passed, she dyed with love
Her very tears blinding, only pity
She drowns herself, so never gets to see
The massive green flock that’s now following
Isaiah Rude Feb 17
Lively and bustling and never stopping,
Here's filled with shadows I will never know.
Hitting and yelling as I sit watching,
it killed me before parting utero.
Explosions create when behind a screen.
Fooled into believing the romance lie,
all shadows nod, they don't seem very keen
until the sky falls and the oceans dry.
These poor shadows, victims of their own silence
pass through justice under the feet of gods,
smile disgustingly at the sight of violence,
shadows of gods, who pretend they are not.
All shadows are black, old and new and dead.
Are short eternities with humans wed?
An English sonnet

— The End —