Withering, wasting, time buzzes, its her dying day.
Plucked, prodded at, prickling defenses all fall away.
Perfumed wrists, watch patiently, practiced words penetrate willfully.
Slicing silenced gardens, grimly grasping, now she is slowly sliding.
Sun set softly, shading sharply, surely shortly now.
Glowing, gleaming gravely, gorgeous as ever.
There is beauty in death.















Comments
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Do not patronize. Criticize.
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well arent you just the queen of the castle?
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Pimping jewelery for a friend: [link]
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I'm not afraid of dieing i just dont want to be their when it happens
p.s
look at my stuff [link]
The flower is slowly withering, people have picked at it, women have held the flower in their hands but as the day is coming to an end and all the noises of the garden quiet down, the flower is slipping into death
and you know when the sun is just setting and it casts a beautiful soft glow on everything? Under this glow the flower is more beautiful in its solitude and death then it has ever been when it was surrounded by people fussing over it.
Hope that cleared it up for ya
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well arent you just the queen of the castle?
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I'm not afraid of dieing i just dont want to be their when it happens
p.s
look at my stuff [link]
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well arent you just the queen of the castle?
nice job!
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I like my coffee
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well arent you just the queen of the castle?
grammar: its her dying day. --> It's, cos here tis short for it is.
Now that I'm done being nitpicky, on to the poem.
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“Writing is really very easy. Tap a vein and bleed onto the page. Everything else is just technical.” ~derrick jensen
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