No one wonders about it
Those scars that open
Those scars that open
slightly as a diary pages
with some
ink
reading
out
daily
verses
crimes/copulations
of all the
universes
No one wonders
why he held that near him
a shredded piece of
diary entry
like a lover's hair
poignant
memory
No one wonders
why she held the poems
baptized by them
no one wondered
Ah, a scar is a feather bourne on skin
born lucky to be torn in death
faded only if skin succumbs/dominates
with a tempest cycle
Ah, a shredded page
bleeds nothing
it's so illusionary
Ah, a poem
words of no usage
Ah, a bone
no longer skeletal
fossilized
a fuel-matter
Ah, a soul knocking
I can hear
but doors are closed.
Too lazy to unveil that vale.
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