Makeup (The Cracks In The Compact)

Artificially coloured stains,
Through the small rectangular mirror of a compact.
Beautify what little perfection can be offered;
But watch out objects in the mirror are way closer than they appear.
And as long as you show me,
The beauty in the perceived beast.
Maybe,
I’ll keep my love around.

And so I’m watching the bloodstains,
Turn black with the scars of emotions;
Too deep to understand why,
Ingrained in the pale faced girl.
She’s in a coma.
And even he can’t wake her up,
Unless she finds the cracks in the compact.

Compacted black feathers,
Struck by a parched desert ground,
Molehills, painted ying-yang symbols,
Hitting the outside,
Not the bullseyes,
Never one hundred per cent right,
The dry autumn leaves,
Falling as a metal spring,
Spiralling out of the thunderclouds,
And an albino raven’s,
Carks,
In the wind.
Are a reminiscent-
Green over her corpse,
Air that sings of the pills,
Through her porous skin.
Harmonising for a doctor,
Or at least the next of kin.

And it always comes down,
To the red vs. blue.
The splattered perfection stains,
On the compact,
Throw their spears,
Like a needle in the eye.
Maybe just today,
She’s blind.
Made-up as the compact commands.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
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