The Weaver of Tapestries

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The darkness faded long ago
the shards have healed, the soul has eased
and yet somehow, at times my mind strays
asking why’s, looking for might-have-been’s

Do you ever think of me?
Telling everyone I was the cause, I was the pain
did you really suffer, were you grieved
were there a million pieces of you, like there were of me?

Excuses, excuses
Anything to use worn beds
tattered into incredulity
even after the passage of time

Yet, you spin the old mantra
of lies couched in sweat and sniggers
corruptible spasms in a sea of disruption
Fanciful cocktails of blood and music

Beneath freckled claws, under wide eyes
do you really believe what you say?
Does the villain always see a hero in the mirror
or does he open his eyes sometimes?

Clutching spheres of crystals and tears
sucking in derailed hearts
No – I will not forget. I do not want to.
Frosty-eyed I clutch at the withering storm

Dark stars falling on fluttering eyelids
nails scraping at the brittle grime
Still here. I am still here.
Bereft, but whole.

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