Skin deep in her cold green sea,
a dark and gnarled sky above.
On the curved horizon a side reads:
She believes in angels but she can't believe in love.
Insane in her reverie, wings sewn cross-stitch
down the spine of her back.
Rattling panes that the wind blows
are just a reminder of all that she lack.
Saw teeth across metal is music to her ear,
the shriek of the tea kettle full of insolent childhood fear.
Rude eyes shout; forget the devil, he has no bite.
She knows better though and she's not going down without a fight.
Her attempts to speak of the things she has heard
are the sounds of a cat who has sprung on a bird.
To spread her wings is to spread her legs
and embrace the power the darkness has made.
Oh, the suffering of heartache after hearts ache
while pulling the wings off of flies.
She can make you laugh, she's pretty smart eh,
but it isn't the same as being wise.
Every bit of her life, it occurs to her,
yes it does, it just occurs.
Now is it being selfish or just being blind,
if fooling people well is her way to unwind.
A portrait of a lady I know. When she read it she was thrilled. I was thrilled that she was thrilled... if that makes any sense.