Colors of Pryzm

From beneath a withered quill the carvings of my perceptions are scratched upon thin, white canvas. Burning desires to be read are fraught with daggers of reality piercing my heart. My pen sways forth and back flirting with words to tease the soul.

A pendulum arcs across the table. I lie motionless, awaiting certain death with every letter read. Gruesome details of my tortured heart spill onto virgin pulp. Blood leaks from the wound of the pendulum’s first pass. My withered quill twitches in desperation upon paper, cutting out words in hopes of vanquishing myself from this seemingly inevitable fate.

Affairs of the heart mixed with macabre visions of the true world make not a catch for a mate. Drunken stupor softens the four chambers, an effort in normalcy, clouded by the rippling of whiskey around soft ice cubes.

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