Graveyard Of Little Muses
A Clown's Christmas
Plucking my heroine's wings with their ruthless pliers,
the world undresses her heart of love
like an insane sun that burns a delicate flower.
In the room of the mute people
they eternaly jail me, so I cannot love her anymore,
with letters and words.
Her skin they paint in a dozen shades of mud
while their lips massacrate her lips
in their loveless carnal desires.
I scribble the walls of my heart
with unheard emotions of passion
that depict her, in her worst day,
exquisite and rare, as the freckled and white moon,
and I unleash my fists against the hated men of her past.
Too bad she's not here to see this brave part of me
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