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post-traumatic ruminations

I'm listening to my orchestrated life
an opera with the soul of a decrepit angel
a hunched, grey figure in cold rains
blood red jewels in his pale and clenched fist.

nobody can say I haven't lived
I've head the organs play and seen leaves fall.
beauty die with the smell of lilacs
fire in the sky over cornfields of dusk.

sometimes, too much to bear, this life
eyes weeping red ribbons and face turned away
from broken rose tinted sunglasses. the light
can be too bright.
First comic