In the middle of the night –
She remembers,
The little things that used to
Twinkle past the sordid slumber;
The miracle of the moon,
The lightning striking into sparkling splendor,
Alone with the haunting quotes,
Sickly smile despite the frivolous foes.
Where did he go wrong?
No blood spilt,
Except those that form at the beginning of dawn.
White shades all appealing,
Singing while she’s screaming,
She is no longer believing,
The sky feels so unappealing.
The lies casted into the casket,
Buried beneath his charades with nightshades;
She chose silence,
And indeed the palpitation shall remain in the midst of her dreams.
Looking up is arduous, indeed,
Neither books nor colors can shade them green,
No quivering, nothing moves beneath
The covers except for the soul spilling into eternal treachery.

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