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Sep 5
There is a lull in being
a singular heartbeat among
the mess of your room

The window is dark
with the suspension of city quiet
and the hum of incessant silence
Existing, existing

Sitting with hands bleeding
fire and flowers and fraudulent feelings
and the floating ache of lungs

The perfume stings your nose
and you learn to love it
and then you learn to hate it
Hear a voice (your own):

The apple falls, crisp, red
It fulfils it grand role
Eaten, sacrificed
The seeds see far,
noble, shinning destiny

The apple falls, clinging, dead
It rots as it descends
Putrid, abhorred
The seeds grow an executioner
choking, mindless hunger

I’ll tell you a secret
You smell of corpse-sweet

You are not your own
You are not your own
You are not your own
You are not yourown

My fingers tug my limbs with puppet string
on a stage made of automatons
and I’m so scared I’ll blindfold every smiling audience
who’d come to see me dance
that one day I’m left with a empty room
only filled with audio studio claps
Written by
Em  Singapore
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