Allow people to admire you for who you truly are, they say

and rain trickle down the grooves of your finger tip

let the mettlesome horse leave the court stables in February.

count your toxic days from incurable nights.

I say i’m not proud of the woman

my mother used to be

I hope the clogs she wore

make a different sound than the one I wear.

A black rose withers on your window pane

leaving snowy ashes on winter’s stairs

the language of my palms

is whitewashed to tell a different story from yours

When you least expect it

Light  flickers haphazadly in still abyss of darkness

You are on a train crashing into a river of eclectic changes

Deep waters stifle you until something different wipes your slate

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