Asylum Fiction

Walk away, in a field of soft roses

Taint of blame and corrupted blood

Pointed fingers pricked on thorns

Carving out olden scars of liquid gold

.

Bloated bodies twisted like vineyard green

Of jealousy, of crushed lies, of purest arrogance

I’m a mere suture away from a finished letter

So cut my chest wide open and read all my sins

.

Surely, these careful feet won’t shatter on glass

That broke beneath the creaking floorboards

Ending the same—trickling droplets of roseate

Infatuated with bliss and miasma, vials of life

.

Almost unattainable, phantom cold to the touch

Picturesque memories sparsely hanging onto the

Dusty hallways crawling with naphthalene ghosts

Roaming, distorting portraits and jagged mirrors

.

And outside the garden terrace, in a field of soft roses

Porcelain bones are buried underneath, blooming with whispered prayers

From a catatonic past, long faded and frayed at the edges

Will you walk away now, or dwell until your soul withers with the seasons?

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