p
o
e
m
s

A widow combs her wirey flaxen hair

and her dark eyes flow

coldly beneath a wilted brow,

her tome breathes heavily as she sits

on a raft,

curled in a warm magenta cup,

a rose’s basin,

teaching scents,

burning lessons,

scratching her life on a flower’s soft wall,

rubbing a stamen to sharpen her pencil,

chalky film collects as she winks,

blinded,

an incessant snow invades her dark rose,

long-picked,

wilting powerfully over

ice-capped wakes.

easychair

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