Vacuum prism

Oh, paint me a picture
and color me in.
I’ll feign adumbration
of a languid kill.

I’ll blame black and white
and the scarlet of scars.
But when crimson bled,
I still felt afar.

No act’s a clean kill
if the target’s you.
If it leaves a scar,
your hue is not true.

To go like an angel,
it means to defend
every thought of human
that pushed to this last step.

And that’s what they say.
It’s what I’ve been told.
That’s what guides me now
through echos of cold.

We’re hollow inside.
Every blow’s a whisper.
If a tree falls on me,
I’ll limp to the liquor.

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