Armed in rouge and a baroque persona, She - ever calculated- now had dressed in deceitful love.

And he was deeply in love; hopelessly deep...

And hopelessly loved. 

He was the stunning superlative of a natural inamorato; graciously touched and admired in whole. 

He was the muse of light, feathered consciousness in the sphere of doubt.  A virtuous spirit, he had once not felt the blossom of seduction.

He was in love. And she was dubbed Fate. 

She, dubbed Fate, and her brilliant poison was a fickle-hearted demeanor. 

She did not obliterate the hearts of grievous forbodings; 

in fact, quite the contrary. 

Twas Fate and the kindred of affection that melted a lover soft and unwary.

Her bluff- he could not convict.

Forsakenly rough and tried in passion, Fate had clamored high-headed; unparallel to the despairing betrayal.

Beds were nights, and nights were spent in beds. She did not deem one as her own, and his bed was not hers. 

He was a flower- acutely rooted in unquivering color.  

And she, a pollinating bee, quested succulence in honey. A bee unsatisfied died, but she was Fate, and she was thriving. 

Loyalty; his tragic flaw. His nature of imperfection danced around her like tease.

She was damned to be locked in the arms of his safety, but stupid, she was not nor never.

Startling vividness was the covenant of Fate, and startled she was no longer.

At least not in the arms of him.

She did not feel selfish in temptation, neither in cheat.

She was compelling and craving;

She was Fate.

girls who run with the wolves aren’t here for boys to love.

you walk in moon dust

and stars are sprinkled in your hair;

you wear strength and darkness equally well,

women like you drown oceans.

you have always been half goddess, half hell.

when the sun sets and the wolves run,

your heart belongs to every star,

and you will never need a king to be a queen.

a queen will always turn pain into power.

you walk on fires others are scared to put out,

because you wear it for skin with a storm in your soul.

sometimes the princess and the witch are one,

and red riding hood will eat the wolf.

don’t let them forget

that the most powerful hurricanes begin when the wind disguises itself

as the tiniest breeze and the briefest hint of sea.

there is lightning in your soul,

you were made of miracles,

and you can run all you want,

but in the light of the moon

the wolves will always call you back.

[this is a found poem i put together with five or six Pinterest posts i came across; most of the lines are from the poem that inspired this one, by Lydia Maartin, and the rest are from Nikita Gill, Rupi Kaur, Zachry K. Douglas, and a few unknown sources. i didn't write any of this, just got inspired by other incredible writers and combined their works!]

she doesn’t know the world at all.

she is too young

to die an adult’s death,

and too old

to live a child’s life.

is an army

to protect

or to kill?

is it to protect her

from the world,

or to kill the world,

all for her?

it is deadly and lovely, and it’s

in the air she breathes and

in the water she drinks and

there is no escaping the weight of

their words

this world

the future.

When she grows up, all she wants is to be free:

The way a breeze through her hair in spring can become a killer in a storm a day later.

A change of course driven purely by simple will.

That’s exactly what she wants to be.

The way a breeze through her hair in spring can become a killer in a storm a day later:

She finds it beautiful.

That’s exactly what she wants to be.

Free and beautiful.

She finds it beautiful:

The thought of a life of security and calm stability… but somehow lacking.

Free and beautiful.

That’s it; it’s hard to be as free or beautiful.

The thought of a life of security and calm stability… but somehow lacking:

Lacking, yes, but it appeals to her; perhaps she’s been too out of control this whole time.

That’s it; it’s hard to be as free or beautiful,

But solidity is key as well.

Lacking, yes, but it appeals to her; perhaps she’s been too out of control this whole time:

That’s what she says to herself. (to convince herself?)

But solidarity is key as well.

So what does she really want?

That’s what she says to herself (to convince herself?):

Solidarity is key, and freedom is the lock to beauty.

So what does she really want?

She’s not sure anymore.

Languished in prosperity

Deter; do disincentivize.

For listlessness of the damned shall

Not, nor be of the naïve benevolent.

Falter falls to finite.

Due time

I am the Harbinger.

Denouement you desire.

Lightly dark-

The paradoxical pinnacle.

Do not cry 

By the wilt well.

Dredge from the impossible drowning.

Postured high without illusion

I am here, I am the Harbinger.

A subsequent catalyst of doubt.

Rejoice! Hoist your gaze.

Aim this arrow,

And do not cry

By the wilt well.

Impartial 

the marshall 

Truth seek, bespeak the peak 

Sign in the fine of the righteous divine

See me, See 

he, See she

She sees

Complexity in the convexity of the erratic reflexity

We know now not the neither;

Vocally resent the faulty displeaser.

Musn't one must assimilate trust

In spite of the justified, utter disgust?

Bleed in oppression

They need the progression!

Pragmatic, are you?

Maybe quite the emphatic.

As you try to succumb by rule of the thumb

Unbeknownst to none, 

it hums 

it hums

Sought pernicious in virulence,

Ideal, she conquers the plate-

Dances for scheme. She traps

Validation in fabrication;

Impeccable, her feathered prospect.

Capitulate whom temps those she will.

Has the silenced mayhem quenched? 

Measure the coinage she preaches-

Lost in play, fail to fuss.

She undermines the boundary that is the game.