The Stained Constellations

It isn’t the apprehension that blinds me,

Or the rejection that clogs my wellbeing.

It is the sense of inadequacy that takes the charm,

From the guiltless moons,

And the stained constellations that flicker inconsequently.

Nor does the edge petrify me to falter,

To step forward and but forget the burdens hosing us down.

It isn’t a verdant landscape I look out to,

For all I envision is the gradual mortality that glistens up in flames.

It conforms and disassociates itself from the hand-held roots,

To let the blooming season pass once and for all,

For spring assassinates the solitude of repentance,

To leave one dormant of the appetizing dishevelment,

A mess in completion with vain,

But a good riddance nature declares,

For all hostility initiates in the warmth of belonging.

 

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