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  • Writer's pictureVictoria Belle-Miller

Boxed Life

Updated: Apr 13, 2020

Life is a hedge-lined maze.

I'm afraid it might swallow me alive,

as I bend to smell the sweet roses,

and their hidden thorns poke my yielding skin.

Recoiling from my finger's pain,

salty blood tickles my taste buds,

as I attempt to dissipate the pain.

The infinite green blinds me with its redundancy.

Too much silence is surely deafening.

I hear its heaviness falling upon my weak shoulders

like the weight of Langston Hughes's powerful words

resting upon the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

But the sweet roses are so pungent.

And sometimes I wish I had more direction,

because aimlessness is so not rufus.

And now I won't find my way out,

because I'm too dehydrated,

choking on your senseless words.

You son of a gun -- the lost son of scattered passions,

waiting to be brought to life with the slightest breath of oxygen.

I desired you,

the way a dry eye craves a pinch of sand.

I sang you a love song,

teasing your heart and soul out of your human carcass,

like a man of desire rubs his genie from his golden lamp.

For I am one greedy princess.

One day we'll walk together

and find our way out,

out of this lush, green prison.

I'll believe he loves me if he doesn't tell me so.

El me ama, el no me ama.

The roses whisper beautiful lies,

and my ears are seduced by their loveliness.

The once red roses fade to green,

as my soul also succumbs to the madness.

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