Lost Paradise

O the muted gloss of my gravest floss
Chime not, tinkling thy smile;
Wonton I ask ‘me’ to clone my face
And hid ‘myself’ behind
by the same blind alley
Through which my tears flows

O yonder, mantle of yore;
A silent bellow
Breezes warmth,
to every drop
of sweet salty tears
from my cursory face

O ye
The ballerina
Of my dancing cusp;
I possess every point
To quell the force
Into thy bellicose poise

I have known
from every fallings of my eyes
The thaw of universe
in each drop, abandoned;
On the lost paradise
Bruised, and bruised again

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