Photolytic

Photolytic skin, necrotic kinds of thoughts fill my mind. Is this lucid? A memory floods, waves like desert sands. Melodramatic desolace, that paint might be photolytic eventually leaving every canvas blank as to give new painters places. Photographic evidence still lingers on my skin, like warm sun rays filtered through a dying willow tree’s leaves. You smile, a spectre of time trapped in a frame.
Is this lucid? Realism should not crack under pressure. It should not wither in the sunlight, it should not see dawn but always be there. Memories, like desert sands, create mirages – sometimes it is better to die in an oasis than live on sand.

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