Taped lips and broken hearts,
Black wings and blank stares,
A deck of cards flipped to say, “Love.”
You’re every cliché in the book.
Crying blood and ember tears,
Teeth pressed down on razor’s edge,
Cigarette smoke against a darkened sky.
You’re just another set of lies.
An intense gaze; a candle skull.
Shattered glass and broken doors.
Blood splatters made from the paint in your drawer.
Your recreation to rile up the boring.
When a walk is made poetic,
Or the sunset whispers love,
Or the puddles are so called mirrors
That reflects your “tainted” world.
When dust is more than dirt,
When dark is more than vision,
When cold is more than weather,
Or when wings don’t just mean feathers.
You’re every cliché in the book.
--Comment much?: Emb3r Tears? I rather like that.
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