Pretty are those who know their worth. Five pound? One dollar? Four francs? Or maybe priced based on air coins dropping in from stash. Funny how ruby laced lips like jelly would swing and kiss bystanders. For bits of coins in a purse per person. Funny how people crave attention. In a desolate place of inaction.
Ruby laced lips, earthen soil on eyes, in a corner some pain that crystallized. Some dropped souls might bend barren lands but wishful thinking thinks it's tact. Some wishes jade in a dirty mud rock, some wishes death in a room full of everything but cramped.
Like the ebony neck of the statue, fragile and hard, my hands trailed the crevices of what they called life. Missing the bones won't do that much. All is just earthen maggots that hatched. Clinging to life is just a melody of sorrow. And faith that someday I'll play not burrow.
My, her own death, is just a film of black and white. Pantomime without a word or just a boring sound clap— for movies that end.
Heartbeat spaces are all even as I wait for the man, who'll swing the judgement into mine after I sold my soul for a while. For I craved for the jades in the shade of his eye. 'Too hard to find' is what they said, but I know it's worthwhile.
Funny are those who know their worth. I sold my life for four ropes — one round my neck, the others on hand, feet, and mouth. Should have wished for a gold, not for the jade I'm talking about. But desolate is the place I thought I was in, and that's the only crystal I know that can lift my painful sin. The facts I hid as I burrow — flesh of person I know I'll remember. Thru that jade color I wished. Should've ran, should've ditched.
Shallow breaths...from me. Death for me is ecstasy— the climax of the plain boring story from inaction land. Where I stood, tried to find, but now, tongueless and tied. Maybe a song won't taste bad after all this dream. When I woke up not waking up anymore cause I redeem something that gleam.
Foes are what I remember, they make my blood boil. For me, they're my life, in this world so somber. Life like the stillness of December in the very end. With no snow but ashes, when coldness is truly felt.
Death is a dream. Death is comforting. No more ruby laced kisses but blood dyed lips —it bruises —it's bruised. Like ruined beauty of a statue, the crevices touched the hues. Turned blues into black cause inside are empty spaces, no stack. No stash of money, no dollar, no francs.
But I'll remember the person I buried. The hues of his eyes that I'm so fixated with. In my death he's with me, for I kept the promised jade I wished crazily. Lovingly —with all earnest. Hopefully...