transparent notions of lost flowers, amongst warm creation

her bones are not yet inspired

dark ink dripping

within that soul

of golden honey and rosemary blend

a gentle beauty within her

that wants to touch the sun,

thoughts of something already lost

and not yet found

filling her mind

( in whispers, sharing a bright sky,

and the night spectrum under heavy eyelids )

pulse beating in pained motion, and slower breaths

( she says it’s darker there now )

wind howling through the cracks

of glass walls,

tradition, culture - unnecessary vines around fragile wrists

a suffocating thickness of something that’s meant to be good

but is sharp, scratchy, woolen rough

that’s why her heart is caught

in a web

of eternal summer,

but always placed in the days

that smell of

lingering autumn leaves

I see that soul swirling, stuck

somewhere

around a dandelion’s dream

her bones are not yet inspired

but there is light under those fingertips

silently getting ready,

waiting

for the wildflowers to bloom once again

in those gentle arms,

strength hidden in the way she smiles

( with kindness, such kindness )

despite the ache set deep

under those powder blue lungs

.