Somewhere between the colors of tradition and desire, between the notes struck on the fretboard of the dissimilitude in lifestyles, the door was left open, swinging pendulum on the darkness hopeful of desecration of the sacred – limelight, pale green giving a ghastly hue to skin and heart, healing sickly harboring aspirations of haven-hood – waiting for running away again so that the segmentation might be mended with tar and turmoil, slated shingles missing pieces – it’s not the same as it was before, mosaic actuation of fibers and sinews, flecks of situations and dalliances, of open-talk while secretly breaking in a mattress with a mistress of her heartache affectations, calling self sinister instead of lonely, lover instead of loved, villain instead of heroine racing vainly against gossip and goosebumps galvanized by fingertips and moonlight sonatas. Listen:

Melancholy meshuggana marvels at the mayhem brewed in being badly blasted, barely breathing, bashfully berating the brevity of their best intentions, the buckshot leaving the barrel, blowing away the brief affair they faltered through. Never understanding the weakness of joviality, of being jocular with their jaundiced indicatives wishing for firmer terra, terrified in the turmoil they had stirred for/within themselves, withering wills to wants, no matter how wanton they might be perceived – grieving in the seduction that made dalliances deliberate, that deviated dedication to an unflowering blossom, watered down in hopes of fruition, rotting instead, hopeful against the heartache of potpourri.


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