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Observe this, a tableau
unbalanced,
uncoveted, like a bruise.
A splendour, like obsession;
like colours
pressed into inheritance.
The black dog watches
as you redress; pain-spattered
grey and crimson
while the mirror waits, ungently
for you to recognize
your framed reflection.
YOU ARE READING
Bedtime Prophecies
PoetryPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
