Do You Know the Modern Shakespeare?
Do I hear them calling me?
No, once more mistaken.
Who calls at this hour?
No one.
Alone as I am, I have my strength in numbers.
Perhaps, I'm a daydream, recapturing my youth.
It's late at this time of midnight,
to write of a blood-red bruise.
Of seeping cut that makes you shake
and feel guilty of your
deniable self-pity.
You posess your own.
Thy hand is what I'd like in mine.
Blistered from mad writing and chicken scratch.
Ink stain on cheek.
My cheek.
Writing in white in the pitch black of night.
Yet, the moon sets as quick as it rises.
The sky sinks and jumps above the trees.
To tell the difference between the moonlight and daylight is difficult.
My eyes must adjust to it's singing.
Iris purple with streaks of pink.
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