Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

The Page

Opulent in serenity,
I afford myself the comfort
Of lavish thoughts.

I indulge in panic
When tranquility wanes.

Though cynical in love,
I can only mimic advice
As though it were my own.

I'm the great pretender,
Destroying what I predict
And traipsing around like a saint
Waiting to taste the nectar of hell.

I am the magic of midnight,
A cygnet ready to flee but stuck
In lunar thoughts.

I turn the page of my imagination,
Enchanted by hate,
Riddled with spells of whimsical forces
Dying to pound me out.

My heart beats like a drum when I realize
I have only disdain reserved.
My immaculate thoughts, no longer consuming me...


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The Page

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