Your sirens call of lies, Were beacons for my delusions, A blank message in a bottle, Cast upon the dark roiling seas of your fractured mind. How you painted such a pretty portrait of yourself, My very own Dorian Gray. How, with such little effort, You melted my delusions into grotesque technicolor ash, Deep within the Southern Hemisphere, in the attic of your broken psyche, Summoning me, Drawing me in, So blinded was I by your phantasmal fire, your fictitious Holy light, That I failed to see the truth of you, The jagged edges of your fractured self, And all too soon, I lay broken on your empty strand, My soul as fragmented and splintered as yours, Smashed to pieces upon the scabrous edges, Of your hopeless and empathy impoverished shores.
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