she

She’s an old poem

scribbled somewhere between 

the rusted pages

of a mad poet’s journal

long lost and forgotten;

like a forbidden magnolia

blooming amidst the

wine hued carnations

as the eternal resplendence of spring.

She’d take up strange paths

aghast of blizzards and hurricanes

with the subsequential clinks

of her golden anklets

orchestrating the pace of her lone walks.

She’s everything beyond 

the prudent contemplations

of your inescapable realities.

She’s poetry in flesh 

and witchery in veins.