poetry critical

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To attempt to romance nostalgia’s mask
I press my face to the glass, and mimic every move
via pill, swill, and powdery trash consumed.
But assume it keeps this head unturned,
and the rotting trapdoor above the worms
from falling through.
Divine is the locking of lustful eyes,
though only ephemerally do the fixations align;
and as the Siren song of elation
escapes your lips,
the illusion of separation
seems eclipsed,
for a time.
But the ideal does not feign eternal,
for even the warmest limbs entwined;
the blackness, inescapable, lulls nearer;
by ourselves, to be pulled behind.

11 Nov 13

Rated 10 (9.5) by 1 users.
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This feels deep and pretty in my mouth,
but I don't know what it means.
It's probably me.
 — 9

I think you could do without L9-10. The first stanza is really strong, but you seem to lose momentum in the following two. Almost like you were running out of air.
 — brokenarrows

 — fractalcore