I am a growing girl with a winter world
Child of morning star in a (dark hood) cloaked
Childhood would: the fascinations of a mother's heart
a red guitar left stretching, while worlds drift apart
Swinging on her right shoulder
womanhood and get older
To flower bolder, brighter, hold her...sacrifice a pleasent share
I am a talking head to the dog or the sparrow
Speaking riddles to a rhyme, consulting my yarrows
I picnic on the sea shore, with a sack of ragamuffins
nothing means nothing-still my absolute crime is peasentry
For not all love my poems, they speak of woe and wild
I am a growing girl in a winter world
Inside I am but still a child, inspecting the wounds
On my arms and my legs, deprived of the things
You'd rather not say.
I remember poets like Poe, and Plath in a soothing bath
Of blood red posies. The poets with their noses held high
Neither here nor there to me and I.
No one listens to the singing sound of the crazy guy.
Straightened out like a silver line
I weave my golden threads to turn these straw fields into gold
"To-day do I bake, to-morrow I brew,
The day after that the queen's child comes in;
And oh! I am glad that nobody knew
That the name I am called is Rumpelstiltskin!"
I am fishing for reasons in my pond of sorrow
Creating relics for here-after- or tomorrow
But it could not be saved, no ears to hear me
And so I simply wait for the applause I want dearly.