Bruises Are Illusions | poem

Bruises are illusions,
Spoon fed through pores,
Stored at the surface, where wounds
Relish their looks.

Bluish gold, bruises fold, overlap,
Then fade into clockwork veins,
Steam-driven, harp playing machine.

Bruises are illusions
Fused with fear. Color appears thin
But remains a stain for life.

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