Post-Tangent #563

i am singing soft pinks,
after my too bold reds;

i mean,
maybe, my great, round bursts of 
clumsy heart
didn't bruise as sweetly
as i'd hoped.

i haven't a thing against
climbing to middleground;

my lips are left 
less chapped.

--

I am a
yet, wild queen -
learned-head bowed 
low.

heart lifted 

-in anticipatory gusts 
of questions,
peppered with thanks,
for the inner knowing,
melding into my all-

to the heavens, above,
lifting up fervent 
pleas and blessings:

thanks, for the continuing cycle
that continued
long enough
for me to believe
and is continuing, 
even still -

this was something
different.

not singing after?
but, softening to?

this feels much,
much more like home.