poetry

Shards

Wild-eyed,
bloody-fingered,
I gather slivers of me.

A thousand sharp shards
glinting malevolently
in the moonlight.

A thousand fragments
of a long-forgotten dream.
Soul splinters,
tearing at my skin.

I belong in pieces.

Bury me here. Cover me
in roses and white lilies, and
a thousand
shimmering
shards.






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art of trauma
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