With fiery waste,
I throw her picture.
Gloriously so, I am glass.
As was the chisel.
This raw electric color,
this psychedelic death.
Empty like wild fashion.
Dead silhouette,
aesthetic mess.
Are you blue young angel?
Say, did a soft scream open every symbol there?
Deep through smoke,
the absurd dust shimmers.
Some were surreal.
Suffer soon almost rigid
and to green you approach.
Let passion dazzle.
See above concrete pain.
 
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