She
speaks rarely, sized in vibrations, telic in presence. We
seal
for whet, a whit reply, if only wise. She’s quiet, with
attitude—oozing
through grace. A tad bit wild, to live
suffocated,
a mental flog. We flail for perfect, to whittle
love,
afraid to meet her. I saw her wounded, a cool
demeanor,
palms together. Her plaint was simple, and left
unspoken,
for souls to guess. Something pelt deeply, to
scatter
images, to capture dreams. A Jinn was nigh, to push
a
folly, where she combed mane. I saw a jagged innocence,
hurling
wisdom, tempted to sin. Was it riddle, to see for
death—a
life? I ask—for no reply, to simmer in sorrow. I
see
for jewels, a background—in pearls and diamonds. I see
a
longing, an icy disposition, a need to peer through mess.
Is
it amber, even lotion, a moonstone smile? I barely hear,
ever
to hear—a purple riddle. If I spoke of webs, would a
soul
run, crashing into waves? I ask—for no reply, walking
through
topaz. We know for subtle, ever an image, and
sapphire
screams. I thought to imagine, if only a dream.
