Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

Nine Ways of Looking at Her

The cabin is surrounded
by laughter and accusations.
Her paranoia sets in.
We are exposed.

In a swirling darkness of numbers,
Her conscious is nowhere near.

Her poison
has a taste and a sound.
It lingers and echoes amidst bitter resentment.

The heart is ablaze with humility.
The mind is empty,
stories are spun.
I do not know what I prefer.
Her attitude remains as
something to be admired.

The screech of the awkward, jagged surfaces
is enough to deafen.
Her smile still rises
way above the noise,
keeping me stuck in place.

I do not hate her but
Her eyes are characterized by a small regret
and too much pity.
The pity is a thing
to be hated.

Her body cuts
the crowd of black, magenta and ivory into ribbons.
Lines that can be easily defined.
She is pessimistic,
knowing that time still flows towards an end.

It was a creation of toxicity and lonesome
that resulted in pain.
Her nervous smile might still be
something to be recalled with a bit of fondness.

In the dead of the night,
nothing was happening
but it was going to happen.
The sweet scent of
Her warm embrace
fades slowly
as the light had from the day.


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