listening never [seems to] hurt

losing her mind,
one phantom lover
at a time.

nothing is effective or right
or simple or kind
[but if you ask she'll tell you she's fine]

picture frames and blurry faces,
like broken wings,
remind her of the empty spaces

[inside her mind's heart and her heart's soul]
she's waiting for relief and passion and gold...
yet feels that happiness, darling, is an unworthy goal--

a mystery, always elusive and decorous,
[she searches, journey without end]
much like his undignified heart, her blossoming lotus.

she's waiting for him to call her name,
but can't quite get past the sight
of his demon eyes; it's her own dangerous game
that keep her lungs cold and heavy at night.

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