The Season of The Monarch

She thinks..."We are all skulls, jouncing in our heads. Destined to be a stone." She wishes...God would make her into a opal; as she's burning her cells,
Wasted on a nicotine fever.

Will she ever understand her sadness? And there is a heaviness in her chest, that should not be ignored. Familiarize her death, as delicate as the monarch's wing.

With all the ways she pacifies herself, still the memory...The mention of his name seizes her heart.

She will rise up,                                    Be forever lost in the infatuated morning.

Poem by: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt  Photo by: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt