I can’t tell you why,
But the tattoos on my body can.
The ink on my flesh remains seen,
Even while dressed
In my translucent black.
For if I were to stain myself entirely,
Then what is left to show?
But the true color,
That my pour soul holds.
Faint to the ocular view,
No less a dimness still persists.
Solid form my black skin is,
But this pigment’s just a mist.
Atop the balcony of my existence,
Secluded high above tiny homes.
An exit sign lit up in red,
But I know not what it owns.
Potently insidious,
in its fiery redness.
It burns slow,
A dangerously hot degree.
Yet in my peripheral vision,
Empty space lingers
Distractions from decisions,
Appeal to my fingers
The frameless path feels right.
Yet as I touch bottom,
One returns to an orbital height.
A hissing suction sounds,
With the force of my feral fingers.
The glowing red bleeds about
A demon must be near us
But what it holds inside,
Is nothing as expected......
A callous metallic silver,
Presents a familiar figure
The form is not exacted.
Yet in the dark that lie
Lingers a lonely light
Parts of what was once whole
Yet seem to never die.
The shards of deep purple
Stuck inside of me.
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