White lace cloud sewn to the rim of a maya blue sky, dusk of her day folds around the earth, wishing dreams and prayer would permit her fly from, so in its place she stands still letting bygones be well on their way, but this hibiscus blossom is for you, heeding in your sleep her confessionals as they spill to the wind, the echo of him is still in her thoughts, did he once breathe to think that she forgot
what lives inside of her?
In her chest is the spirit that submits to his fire, consumed upon the altar of her self-sacrifice, to sentence self to death because, he is her very life, and he will never know it.
Call it normal, name it loneliness, christen it suffering, baptize it worthless, but she understands the depth of his rareness,
heaven calls him poet.
and this
is the centre of her universe.
She orbits in silence, cursed daughter of eve,
who by the sweat of her brow will toil tears and eat her own words.
Copyright (c) 2008
-Arielle John
what lives inside of her?
In her chest is the spirit that submits to his fire, consumed upon the altar of her self-sacrifice, to sentence self to death because, he is her very life, and he will never know it.
Call it normal, name it loneliness, christen it suffering, baptize it worthless, but she understands the depth of his rareness,
heaven calls him poet.
and this
is the centre of her universe.
She orbits in silence, cursed daughter of eve,
who by the sweat of her brow will toil tears and eat her own words.
Copyright (c) 2008
-Arielle John
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