Untitled ...

She writes poetry in the middle of the night

hair undone

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? ...