If I could penetrate your sufferings
and prevent the threat of the clock,
I could stop those electric paintings
from gushing through your labyrinth.
This is not a heroine fatigue,
but rather it is me saying:
It is not my task to dissolve your costume;
you must invent your own mandala.
Your current interior reminds me of an ant
unaware of the shoe looming above him.
The mirror proportions you weigh your tasks by
is not a true reflection of the spark I see
hidden just under that rust. And the patterns
of today are sewn with a thread so frail
it diminishes underneath the sun's rays.
It is up to you to peel back the layers,
find that little boy that could never stand tall
at the sight of his Father's shadow.
Wrapped up in the hues of your tragic solitude,
you cannot see the Achilles within.
And that heel is moments away
from the tip of Memory's arrow.
Infinite possibilities-A writer's guild
This is a writer's guild where all can gather for feedback and advice on all mediums of writing. Plus it's a great place for conversation.
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