»»————-　★　————-««

You were gliding in the wind, against the current
pushing your way through it, like a servant.
Fate had marinated the air with salt that night
Otherwise, your wounds wouldn't burn you blind.

Oh, a shooting star breaking in the sky so far
how vile you've to be to cling your deepest desires upon a dying star?
Your dreams would smell like honeydew ashes once the star hits the ground,
The vicious cycle of wishing and dejection, you'll fall in it, round.

Then you'll collect the broken memories, stitch them in a rag
Mama said to make her proud, with half a loaf in your bag
In a city full of warm rose petals, in the wine glass or the gutter
your glacial lips seal shut, weaving a blanket of tears as you stutter.

Mercy upon thy soul, you sold it for a penny
Mama said, "your soul is made of gold, Jenny."
little did you know that your soul shines only when the sun falls
and the gold was just dust, swept clean by the mop.

So when the night falls, the mote loses its charm
The vicious drink their milk, made of crushed teeth and harm
The sky smells of rotten meat, the stomach is full with dismay
His teeth trapping insects like venus, a pest like you are always his prey.

You beg for mercy, time and again
Your plaits unfold like lashes of rain
When his buttery fingers choke your words
Your memory-laden tears struggle to fall as if fighting which trauma to let go of first.

"I taste like filth, my blood isn't even red."
He says, "I am tired of wine staining my cred."
So he cuts you open to see your colour, 
"Ah, the golden ambrosia, my favourite valour."

Your mother didn't lie when she said you're made of gold,
Maybe she called you dust so that your ashes and cadaver 
Won't taste like sunlight to scavengers.

»»————-　★　————-««