tracing you cerise, in scornful melancholy.
Within such clamor, canvas won't matter,
the ink dries grey, amidst dismal chatter.
A listless self - crestfallen, a bit crisscrossed,
I accost myself, rattled and lost.
This harmless watercolor, equally piquant;
with corrupt expression, I make confront.
Herein she runs riot, unhurriedly slaying herself;
her wilting frame, barren against my caramel shelf.
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