July 8, 2013 § Leave a comment
A Creature of Habit.
The glass that I broke with my own two hands
is stained with beautiful magenta roses
from my fingertips.
The windows it makes
mark the bounds of this holy space.
The gallery of the mind is a dusty plush carpet
running down a chamber of dove-coloured stone –
pathetic fallacy runs rampant.
Unsure of what to celebrate and when to storm,
the poor thing does both in a way no one understands,
lying those same old lies.