The dark flower, mysterious And demonic in its pristine beauty A curse of immortality, Passed down through the ages
Within a broken mind, The shrill cries of cicadas echo Against crumbling ivory bone The cicadas keep crooning, Even in the desolate spaces Where only silence exists Can you hear them?
Drizzling rain pours down, A sullen reminder of The broken promise
Waltzing along to a hidden crescendo, I twirl through scarlet satin shadows They cloak my porcelain skin, Donning me in a mask of my own making
Ghosts, left over From long ago They are remembered In seemingly invisible slivers