Your contempt
For the little flowers
In my garden
Is as unwavering
As the diamond
On the Mohs scale.
It is the simile
Of a category five
Gale
In the Beaufort series,
A polar razor
That splits the warmth
Of my heart in two.
It is like burning lava,
Pyroclasts and lapilli,
Stinging magma and lahar,
A ruthless Viking
Landing on
The peaceful
shores of my sea.
He sails against my happiness,
Enveloping the highest peaks
Of my illusions
In icy cold.
It is an earthquake that shakes
The foundations of my being
With Richter's
Maximum intensity,
A bottomless pit
As dark and abysmal
As the deepest ocean
In the Mariana Trench.
It is a total eclipse,
Which covers with its umbra,
Its penumbra and antumbra,
Any sign of light
In the space inside me.
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