Dear Pandora, I’ll stay

I will neither bid you farewell
nor greet you with tunes
of how your eyes are leaves,
unsure sightseers of seasonal
everchanging color.

I won’t compare you to the
beauty of the world because
synonymous words are worthy of no
uproar.

I will compare you to a human,
never a rose.
You are a curious and bewildered,
arcane and gallant traveler in the
depths of your mind and forks of your
path whose yellow bricks you’ve pinned
to your hair.

You are a most feline companion of the universe,
expressing tints of divinity in the unsatisfying
life span of a human being.

You are a painter
and a pallet,
a brush and a canvas
with a backpack full of
colors and stars
and iridescent scars.

And I am not sure
what you see as
purity in my corrupted
blank canvas,
yet
it seems to beget
a vivid something
to your perpetual longing.

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