Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

A scream of canvas

Her once silken skin,
Shredded to ribbons, anger
Sequestered, turning into
Dulcet sadness.

She whispers a moonlit
Crescendo, her velvet tongue
Spitting silver words
Atop the heads of crazies.

They lust a kiss from her.
Her smile, a rose.
Her death as dark as a
Midnight with no stars.

She has no pearls of
Wisdom to throw down,
A moon without being new,
Organza covering her sheen.

Broken brushstrokes paint
A slaughter upon the canvas.
No horizon, only melded purples
Forming a unison of her nightmares.

Her lips, a scream,
Flowing like a scent,
Polluting the breathless and
Turning dark the speechless.

While she is forever mute,
Her mind mumbles tragedies.
She is fleeing from the cold feel
Of a million hands reaching out.


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A scream of canvas

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