transparent notions of lost flowers, amongst warm creation
her bones are not yet inspired
dark ink dripping
within that soul
of golden honey and rosemary blend
a gentle beauty within her
that wants to touch the sun,
thoughts of something already lost
and not yet found
filling her mind
( in whispers, sharing a bright sky,
and the night spectrum under heavy eyelids )
pulse beating in pained motion, and slower breaths
( she says it’s darker there now )
wind howling through the cracks
of glass walls,
tradition, culture - unnecessary vines around fragile wrists
a suffocating thickness of something that’s meant to be good
but is sharp, scratchy, woolen rough
that’s why her heart is caught
in a web
of eternal summer,
but always placed in the days
that smell of
lingering autumn leaves
I see that soul swirling, stuck
somewhere
around a dandelion’s dream
her bones are not yet inspired
but there is light under those fingertips
silently getting ready,
waiting
for the wildflowers to bloom once again
in those gentle arms,
strength hidden in the way she smiles
( with kindness, such kindness )
despite the ache set deep
under those powder blue lungs
.