You’re
a legacy,
some
type of woman, even
an
alien; and god heard, the
silent
cries, to come for aid;
if
but a moment, where you
winced,
to feel vulnerability. I know you in
shadows, to scrape your soul, to mimic a disposition; and love grew, to see for
difference, that other than pain. You
spin in tears, to lavish in joys, even tender corrals. We
die lightly, to live harshly, to remember the rain; where a person laughs, to
mock retreats, to force activity; but love is special, a gentle sigh, a spider
in glory; where hurt is magic, even a screenplay, multiplied in wisdom.
Oh
to fall, for the gift of woman,
a
world of majesty; to see us
scribing,
upon ancient tablets,
rushing
out the caves. I first feared you,
the angst of eyes, scribbling anguish; but such was beauty, to push passed the
nightmare, to love more than wounds; the furnace of souls, to feel each verb,
to perish in a smile; for art is broken,
as
whole as olives, as squeamish
as
the paranormal. Such is love
—to
break the cosmos, to return
the
whys.
I’m more your world,
and
less your world, to become
your
world; to see it as roses,
the
wonder of sessions, to
rekindle
birth; so more your
eyes,
to speak of legacy,
this
different type of woman.
