Belladonna Sorrows: Poetry

One wonders idly
If one day the stains
would overshadow
the Garden of Existence

These little poisons,
drops of gloom distilled
in the torture chamber of emotion
bled into every surface
viewed with open eyes

So that the world becomes
an inversion of color,
the mutation of joy,
a deviant of epiphany,
Beatitude’s monstrosity birthed

By a pain so basic that
one simply stops feeling it
transfuse all aspects of Life
with the blood of Belladonna Sorrows.

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