An elegant tragedy


Words slowly drip along the lines

with melancholy pitifully draped in elegance. 

She looks at herself with eyes of resentment

and mercifully traces dolls of symphonies and tones

loud and eerie, soft and brutal,

waiting for silence to heavily devour the laughter

that echoes in the room. 

She lives along the disk of resistance,

with a bow tucked in her hair

in agony; she screams 

at the corset too beautifully worn, but always

so stupidly carved. Is she supposed to wear it,

or is it the other way round? 

Wine glasses and whisky on rock,

dressed for the occasion of living a

mortified version of embellishment

with lilies and roses and cupboards full of books, 

terrorizing the maidens and mystifying the hours 

of a cold dark shade 

of epiphany within the oblique reposition. 


She is abstract enough to justify absurdity

belonging to her tools of oblivion;

concrete enough to become complete

amidst the misplaced sequins

and broken nails. 

With analog clocks ticking her moments

and monotonously raw and evicted

to have opinions, or thoughts of her own. 

In the heatless warmth of sheer trepidation, 

she stands utterly beautiful, 

with heels complimenting the desire,

paints that she could be a part of. 

Oh, how her life slowly unfolds!

Her clothes weren't supposed to be just clothes;

they were meant to be armors. 


The silence bestowed in enchantments

as the tip of her pen

smoothly resonating to the mimicking 

footsteps of lilacs and a scented perfume

slowly made way to her home,

to her art, to her name,

and to her. 

The sanctuary of the golden lies 

keeping track of mutilated leverages

in the mirror of shaken glass.

The pillows in ecstasy,

and in horror, 

floating around the room

inching away from the candle-light

as she lights up the piece

of paper she drew her thoughts on. 

Sensual, the presence

of her fiery gaze in the 

window blocked of fame

and the vapor shining through the

relic in the abyss standing 

calm, monotonous,

and profoundly mysterious

in a blood-soaked gown

whimpering, pilfering from life

and always with a scream

of pain.


The beauty of being burnt

into a lady with black hair

braided the perfect way,

the hazelnut eye turned pitch black,

the blushes of cheeks 

overthrown with turmoil of her

never-ending smile 

of endurance. 

The piercing and tattoos 

so delicate of hatred,

monstrously calling names,

of freedom, liberty 

and penning ambience

as she walks barefooted,

and keeps moving on

in an ever-torn world

in a newly torn top. 

Oh, the peeks of painters into her

beauty to paint her nude

with colors of her own

body.


What a tragedy to be beautiful!

 

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