Filter

As she wakes on a track
blue vials spin and something thorny bites her wrist.
Daisies rain against her metal umbrella.
In this drunken stupor of reluctant acceptance, she blinks at death;
nothing is as bright as an open wound under starlight.
Fleeting breaths escapes this lioness's rush to shelter,
bony and meek beneath a shield of hot screams.
If only we had the feather-fledged audacity to see
violent storms brew behind the blur of pretty marbles.
In the heart of darkness we must view our real self,
soaked in stone cold irony; mirror, mirror on the wall.
A tomb-heavy silence swings its scythe:
your understanding of all this is in a million pieces,
watching from the lowest branch with an obstructed view
of a bird you think is flying, but she's really dying.