We are naught but a song
to those we meet
the melody which surrounds.
I could never aspire
for fate was bound as a child
when trees planted
I painted my room icy blue
very soon after.
Yet for the screeching sound
which is writ in verse
as nails across a chalk board
None would believe
the story I would tell instead
I have no defense
but accusations as a feather
into a monster grew.
Was it a gentle touch or hard ?
I do not remember
but for the smoldering pillar.
I was not wrong
for suspicions which floats
was oft proven
to be correct - in wreathes
of wrath is truth.
It is the center of our temple
for we fell in love
but never did we even kiss.
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