Gold band above the filter like an ouroboros born in a philtre
If she forgets to buy my apples, I make sure to pout when she walks in to guilt her
My sleeve is strapped with false heart, my heart wrapped in ticker tape, a wicked ticker ever was one and in bad shape
The shape of a heart on a valentine’s card a lot more like a perky tart’s arse or a weird guitar
Than what a chest comprises, where with pride it rises
Where every beloved rose that left my irises resides.
Alchemisland 
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