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milk hair, milk clothes a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream the whirr of a printing press on blank paper The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears. A mirror bought to of echoing frailty, a chord at its highest piercing note. The crescendo before dusk. A pair of hands encased in its own Who                                                             polite and light on the tongue,                                                                             a vain blind                                                                            no less Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch. It prays.                                          Soundless noise.                                                                 not a pin-drop                                                                        not the screeches of bosses And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine. It screams. The mirror.                                       Cell             blown to bits Custody               broken Mirror tattered refunded at a bitter price.     Blank as snow and crisp as winter. Gone like snow the very next morning. But ever so physically there.
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Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 7:22 AM UTC
The blank canvas
milk hair, milk clothes a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream the whirr of a printing press on blank paper The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears. A mirror bought to of echoing frailty, a chord at its highest piercing note. The crescendo before dusk. A pair of hands encased in its own Who                                                             polite and light on the tongue,                                                                             a vain blind                                                                            no less Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch. It prays.                                          Soundless noise.                                                                 not a pin-drop                                                                        not the screeches of bosses And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine. It screams. The mirror.                                       Cell             blown to bits Custody               broken Mirror tattered refunded at a bitter price.     Blank as snow and crisp as winter. Gone like snow the very next morning. But ever so physically there.
bleupoet
Written by
Somewhere beneath the sky
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 7:22 AM UTC
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