I swallowed stars
and still remain unfit.
I smile at the wrongs
until despair becomes my home.
I pray to find my way back home,
but my prayers get lost in eternity.
You know, time is a liar,
wearing hundreds of mortal masks.
Along the way, the void
became what you called soul.
Existence became a wound
that never bled,
and the blade is what drives it home.
And in the drift of days,
I am a question
that still remains unfold.
©Diana Mistera
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