Wednesday, January 8, 2014
She writes poetry in the middle of the night
eyes fixed at the golden moon.
When everyone is asleep
She bakes and eats the pulpy sadness
She is a witch
Or perhaps a lunatic.
But her soul is still a virgin.
Its soft petal skin
as old as the primordial thought;
Its every breath is a new hymen pattern.
Looking for peace
It grows wings
and transforms into a butterfly.
It takes a roll call of
all tall promises and smiles.
And its sadness is like a white hibiscus
resting on a garden fence.
Do you remember the gold fish
that used to swim in her heart
before it turned into melted ice? ...
Posted by Celestial Dreamz