If I could write with words of frost,
prose of blues and coldness-
then I could show you how my soul bleeds...

Whenever I try to create my heart,
all I see is the pale paper with poetic incisions of ink.

So instead- would you please stop and just look into my tired brown eyes and
tell me what you see??

When I look into yours, the stars weap golden light, and I become blind.
Then I fall deeper-
bathing in the dangerous radiance of the heavens...
 
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