A minute poem straining and breaking that constraint without guilt but the results may or may not be worth it. Unedited. Dirty Gleam from ash these once sacred threads Or my robe falls, splaying sparks to heat chill rose anticipation Dirty sparks, I should wash it more often after dropping it on the dusty floor But I do stand clean skinned as a convent shadow in this room can be Or I waver like a votive burning inconsistant halos into her beauty flawed skin Flaws glance off her body, hover a fake flee from the scent of cheap threads She was never an innocent child wedded pure to Chartes auras but neither was I
Posted on: Tue, 13 Jan 2015 07:12:36 +0000
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