My crimson noons and blistered nights
Are flipsides
Of the same coin.
Battered, with hammered thoughts,
Rusted
With tears and sighs
I tried using to grow my bonsai,
Of paper leaves
And ink stained veins
Narrating tales, of shadow puppets
Dancing, to my insomniac dreams.

In silent whispers
Speak the gaping wounds.
No bloodstains leave evidence
Of my carcass heart;
No steel sharper than your shrapnel words
Could leave battle scars
I’ll carry to my grave,
Or distorted images
I’ll make love to, all night long.

I’m singing dirges
To overlap my decayed mornings,
Dregs in teacups;
Refilling normalcy
To draw the curtains
Of a bedroom of undressed emotions.

Somewhere in the garden,
A chameleon mimicked the sun.

19 October 2016

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