Falling into Perspective

What I know I am not

 

When curve met singular.

When dove burst into the flames of sunsets roar.

A distant humming, a disguise for your lure.

A distinguished figure, a lusted after

Folklore. Ancient, tribal and torn.

One is weeping. One is smiling.

Sharpening her teeth.

A wowoman, man. Left to explore.

 

One is moved to tell.

One is still. One is scared.

A poison ivy, a close pale skin.

Stripped and born.

Like a child, heart beating.

Loves always it’s own.

 

Comments are closed.