Paper-Cuts

 

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Pellucid petals of lust,
I, lean over to smell the paper,
Where I lament my dead hopes
burning ferociously.
My pen is pervicacious
inclined to savour the smoke ignited.
The words are my soul,
Insatiable I am dipped in its white corona.
Cathartic particles of serenity forms
as I write my love,
The paper, the pen, the paper-cuts
soaks me in its sullen charm.
And I declare my writing — my muse.

©My Valiant Soul