Re: The Life and Death of a Writer

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They call her a writer

Because she can pretend

And she looks into things

Rather than through them


Though her eyes are kaleidoscopes

Spinning between dreams and lies


Her words are orgasms

Arching across the page

Like moist vibrations too hot to touch

Significance fading quickly


Because her soul collapses

To the sound of a stranger’s breathing


They say she’s a poet

Because she dances in the shadows

Undulating like the rising tides

Mermaids comb from their hair


Though her body is an instrument

Fitting a mold that her mind denies


Her prose is a knife drawn

Slowly across the vein

Bleeding away haunted visions

And forming scarlet castles


Because her heart crumbles

To the sound of her own breathing


She had been a dreamer

Because she saw the filament

That bridged opposing worlds

And walked that thread each night


Though the world soon stopped spinning

Leaving the castles alone to dry