words slip from the bottom lip.
Silence is not always golden,
actions that sashayed with the hips.
Violet vases all around,
love on its broken glass.
Crimson is not the word you chose to speak,
but murmurs of vapour from crass to class.
On angel's wings we once believed,
yet things are too far too hard.
Those were the belongings we chose to keep,
so the past shall stay the past.
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