Revelry of The Grief Cuts.

Don’t be an abysmal poet, My Dove. Let the wrath drain you away. I’ll discern you the folktale of my mischance, more tortured, more than just a swollen bleed. My heart was torn apart with tender deception that made me gruntled at first, that broken one was retained—with some peeled pomegranates, caving in along with them for me to devour as whole. My mouth incapable of shedding any oath but those deuces, I was healed then out of blue. May you obtain the cure upon your sanity, until then. (@sanhhua)