“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.”   ##Poe

imageedit_68_4128263235

 

 

Anonymously,

grabbed by the tail…

there is an aura of frail.

How can one attend to vulnerability?

With anger on a pallet.

In the mist…

a waif.

Wanting a morsel of dignity.

While she cries through the brume.

She, alone, keeps the mystery.

Further off the thwarted passage.

Another bough breaks.

Earlier a broken shaft.

Now,

a poetic forgotten,

wooden stake.

Scarred by death.

The mysterious waif,

drifts.

Surrounds herself in a shroud of…

liability…

What if?

 

Nothing so bare,

as an,

open hand,

closed mind

or a begrudging first.

Always the healer.

She has traveled so long.

Just to stay so far away.

Save for rainy days.

Save for rainy days.

 

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