Ends.

And when its over we wait in the ruins, too tired to start over and too broken to leave it behind. Eyes startle in the dark; Shame stands frail and naked and gods crumble in the night. And truth whispers in your ear now that the songs are done, and when you wake you see the prisons that forever paint your mind.

I am a vein in a pale thin wrist, heavy with foul blood brooding in its frail, narrow confines.
And you a shining blade.

I never asked to be set free. Why did you ever come?

 

 

 

 

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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