Wreck Of The Day

by fine looms of amber  ll     remember the liquid gold   ll  plow up your pretty pink
you fondle the flames           those long lost luxuries     ll   for on this pyre it will claim
to fuse in their heat               what if                                l   your passion and flesh
                                              they linger buried
pray, you know                      within you                        lllll  go spill your sickening scarlet
your patina peels off                                                        lll soiled with sorrow and age
                                              if only to your irish green
you blend in your blue           irises they are                       say, what is it now to you
but nobody buys it          lllll   invisible                                 if not all the same stabbing pains.

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