Walking postcards.

Long eyelashes, cast a shadow below your eyes

On nights, brought to life  by candle lights.

Each time you blink, or your lips curl into a smile

I swallow in dread.

You move too much, pretty girl. You die.

You’re like a sad lullaby,

That a dead mother sings to a dead child

Through the buzzing of flies in her rotting throat

To the ears of the babe, somewhere swollen and afloat

Still songs will drape that lullaby in layers of gold

And that’s how, pretty girl, I see you.

A corpse’s lullaby, wrapped in the hollow that’s you

You move too much, I lose my mind

One slip and you go spiraling down into the depths

Of memories sweet, sweeter and repressed

I want you to stay, bleed and be blessed

Oh girls like you, are walking pictures of dead

You move too much, you are breaking my heart

I can see you smiling from frames and postcards

Queen of tragedy, almost too accepting of it.

Don’t move so much, I can already see you dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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