Friday, 14 February 2014


This time around,
Words bled.
Same as before,
They twirl around her face,
The perfect face
Of deceit.

An ornament in red,
Against pale skin.
Like the raging fire ,
That engulfs in her,
All that remains uncharred.

How is it that words,
So cunning, yet sweet,
Imply such desires,
Making her see
Red all over again.

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