Literature
...
Time.
Time, liquid and cynic, like a poison; is thieving your eyes from mine, with shrieks ripped apart and hurled like a sheet of so many words written with blood, only to be contaminated with the presence of one fault line. With tears buried inside to barren lands of my soul, I sense your eyes flowing away.
A child, sniveling, screams that he loves you, as if his small bird that just released her last breath. You don't hear him, and keep on breaking apart our city of dreams we built with our hands, together, with rocks mischievously stolen from fortresses. The bruises on his chest, closer to the left, you use as a cherry on your pie.
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