• _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 11w

    A poem begins,
    Moist in the memory,
    Of a rain that,
    Wets, but two.
    A poem begins,
    In the sylph-like,
    Movements of a ballerina,
    En-pointe her satin shoe.
    A poem begins,
    In the chaos of a,
    Mind that bleeds words,
    That are invisible to you.
    A poem begins,
    In the coral sky,
    That melts my snow,
    Drowning me, in figmental,
    Rivers of dew.
    A poem begins,
    When the taste of,
    Chocolate fails to satiate,
    The demon in me,
    And so I have only the,
    Feather in my pen,
    To sail me through.
    A poem begins,
    In the golden terrain,
    Of fiction,
    Because love is,
    Too good to be true.

    // en-pointe

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_