Is it a line or a river, dancing on my arm,

Glittering like its silver author, metal.

Though God’s cannons set themselves against self-harm,

Thoughts and desperation made all brittle.


Oh, I saw now its glorious, luscious scarlet

The wine of Lamia; I whined of paranoia.

‘Tis but a trivial bicker that drew the rivulets,

One fiery red and two made my lips Mesopotamia.


Now that my eyes are dried by the sun,

And merciless winds that urged me on,

With deadlines and pressures that weigh a ton.

If only, they or me could be gone.


Still I know I have no right to cry

All I have is the right to try.

*While I know there is no real meter here, I was merely focusing on the sentiment, shifts and allusions along with rhymes this time.


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