i rise with my red hair
and i eat men like air
his eyes were dark. with the shade of redish brown. warm. just like the sunset upon the cork tree. just like mulled wine splattering in the glass on christmas eve. his eyes tempted urs. just like two black holes. just like the barrel of a Winchester. bang. and ur dead. with blood spilling out from ur guts of exactly the same shade as his eyes. he was peering somewhere, nowhere exactly, deep in his memories. an enamoured glance could get a thousand and more similes to his eyes, to what was there, beyond that detached look. yet no one really knew that his eyes were the colour of the fire that he buried his heart in. ashes to ashes. he burned his heart in that flame from where he started out again. anew. ablaze. but dead on the inside. where no one could see. he died in that fire and still he lives on, just like a parson of love. of that fatal love, of which poets sing with their lyres as of the great heaven, but which destroys.
before his eyes was that christmas night. he was bereft. he was crushed. he was pulverized. so were all his poems. scattered all over the place like pieces of torn flesh. and so it was. his flesh and blood. his stars. the greenest, like his eyes, and yet, most terrible. with flowers looking like fairy dreams. his unfulfilled dreams. with raging volcanoes. passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts*. and it all burned. in one night. to make him a rise from the ashes and make him kill the others. one look. bang. and ur dead. unless u learn how to resist.
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