Beneath your heart,
Your valves flows a blood of broken art.
Underneath your shallow scalp,
Your skin digests the foundation creams and talc.
Beneath your panel of parallel poem,
Your paper bears a death note of mortem.
Underneath your wine of woeful wind,
Your gullet passes the chaos of awful grind.
Beneath your snowflakes of snowy summer,
Your monsoon rains screeching sighs of bummer.
Underneath your bubble bath of mourn,
Your soap sweeps your agonising thorn.
Beneath your delicate webs of poxy vile,
Your hands stitches a beige cloth of hope to survive.
Underneath dried leaf of desolation,
Your broom cleans the gallon throes of devastation.
Beneath your ruptured champagne glass,
Your margaret mends your broken breath taking upon the flux of impasse.
Underneath your sinful pale proverb,
Your diaries inks the verses of devote.
Beneath your cacophonous streets of deceit,
Your soul weaves the hail storms of peace.
Underneath your pole of peevish climes,
Your season sings the breeze of ballads rhyme.