Lyra

Everyone thinks Lyra is pretty.
Her beauty fell off her high cheekbones,
And landed onto the soft cushions of her full lips.
They weave tales with her DNA,
And sew their hearts with strands from her braided hair,
While I look on puzzled,
Not understanding how they don’t see,
With each push of the needle,
They also poke a bleeding hole,
That stains it’s natural colour.
Don’t misunderstand,
I love her…but,
All I know is that when I rush to her room,
For sanctuary,
Her bed is warm and inviting,
But she isn’t there.
Her vacant stare catches my breath,
But not in the way,
It would a lover looking at her loved one.
Her smile is devastatingly sad,
Because unlike everyone,
I know her.
I know how beautiful she actually was,
Behind that porcelain prison everyone praises,
That not a minute ago,
She looked outside her window,
Watching the pieces of her soul fly past her,
Into the night,
As she waited,
Waited for her heart to return,
While she stood there,
Hollow,
Dying slowly,
In the arms of such insanity,
Only longing could design.

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Poems and Worlds

How mundanely simple the world would be,
If everything was as analogous as a poem,
If people were really like flowers,
Sweet even when crushed,
But more often than it is,
It’s not.