Friday, August 29, 2014

the darker side of us

Someone can always wither on one's own hands
like an old paper, used for recycling to waste
we are wasters,
chose death on our own,
call it friendly fire, or treason, or even a heartless form
of love.
there's always a hand that wants to detach from the body
and run over its own shoulder,
rushing to fury
like a poisoned apple,
then there's what come from outside of us
like a silver bullet to a fair princess's head
gushing out of a cold gun at night
when the windows are closed
when the light is out
when darkness covers all of earth
there's always a way to sweet revenge of the black widows
moments before dawn,
someone building a tangled web for the fall cannot care less
forgetting to shut part of the curtain
that lets in, all of what belongs to the outside.

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