Perhaps your silence stood so sullen you disappeared in its wrath so you made this day a past that's a dark that's blind and blinding. And a still you're far from finding for you're still with temples minding just that lie your heart's now grinding for the truth's now brazen in your eyes.
You know no metaphor tells no lies. There are lies, pretensions and metaphors. The first we condemn outright. The next we disdainfully dislike. And the last we gladly glorify. All lies. Disguised. Or otherwise. Lies.
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AuthorAlina N. Kidwai Archives
October 2015
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