Myths

lingering behind

closed emotions that will never die—

my thoughts are keystrokes

marred by oceans,

onto old parchments of

desire— written love poems

and plays that tell

eloquent dilemmas of love

and hate, more of

unoriginal contemplations

fit for the gratification of those who wish to feel.

Those lies,

written behind silvery sweet tongues,

lines of intertwining rhymes

like vines of trees, strung in roses

the tragedy of love

forever undressed

under the eyes of God.

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