Strung
Nadia Murtaza
The clanging of the obvious, the momentous slap in the face that everybody but your dimwitted bright-spark should choose to notice.
Those lights are bright and misleading, all kinds of red yellow blue full of life and passion - but they're lights, lights, lights in a corner otherwise empty and dull.
Smart smart kid, well read and over qualified, so stupid so stupid when it comes to the little divine delights of this tainted dishonest life, flickering nude palms, wrapped up in cellophane.
A great mind full of ideas and anecdotes, an answer for everything an equation for lifeless limits - but that heart in all its glory confused and tugging left and right, front and centre - ready to explode into
a mess of art on the kitchen floor.
silly silly soul, toyed in the bombshell firey eyes, in one second, out the next, skipping with daisies under the skin on feet and trodding on broken magnetized glass, digging into the veins of existence and questioning if there were ever daisies in the reflection at all.
A petals disastrous fall from the tall stems of what? of what ever existed or was it a game, no beautiful strong stems to balance on, just a wide string, string, strung along corners and over hills continuously coming to an end but continuing on its self-destructing act of suicide, but those damn red petals leading the way to a blissful unknown, a garden of indifferent eden awaits, the following eyes see the sneaky suspect snake but that apple, boy, that luminous painted apple - it looks great.
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