Linking the paradox of time into one certain line,
Shattered roses have had their oxygen declined,
Nails covering beneath the basement of fear,
the wrath of air silhouettes as unmatched fingers entwine.

"Pink"the color she whispered to convince the museum guard,
"Paradise" the word she used to describe what silence scarred,
Tellin the guard to close the door so she can suffocate with art,
A form of prayer she once made to establish that life is hard.

Legacy she slowly drips from the edges of her chin,
Golden pride she easily gives to the black and white sin,
Dimension rapidly tightening the angle of her wrist,
Swans freely moving in the wide sea of her palm spring.

Heroins's heroic sense no need to be used,
Faint at the rise of consciousness after feelings are abused,
Depth never measured because the hole is too black,
Surface never touched because the colors have been confused.