yesterday,
the Queen shot her self with a crayon.drawn gun. scribbled in red and yellow, and an imagination that could smile at the lightbulb and make the entire room bloom with an immaculate type of birth. her feet wiggled in the skylight that looked through the purple room as winter whited.out her air with snow, and you could taste the heat of the ones who were forgotten. but not the forgotten of those who tasted ourselves; whose night washed its lust in the hands of the fingers to fold each other. Again and Again, how fast her breath caught a cold to forget to say those who fall in love are those who build their own ink pen holocaust. Ordinary People rested on the swing set of the dawn's midnight sun. haven passed and glowed so dark between the heaven that angels cannot breathe in the sky without each other. nor lovers. it was a sparkplug knot that cannot untie a ribbon to cut the rope, as if not the sound of birth can repent our soul to die in our own first glimpse.
lady, dear lady....
how fast your amber grows.
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