Stories of celestial maidens,
Whose sole purposes are to flow- like saccharine sap
Down the sides of a maple, treats for insasiate passerby
seem to hang from branches,
breaking under the weight of sweet fleshy fruit.
I am amazed by the fossilized promises,
lovers and emotions- entombed in that amber coffin.
What do you do when there is a forest fire
yet nobody can see it but you- only it's not a forest
it's a body, and that body belongs to you?
What do you do when you are holding the matches?
I think the problem with this me is that my soul-
made of dried lavender and amethyst that scintillates
in the moonlight-is a darling charm for souls doomed
to walk the craggy ravines of locust shells
and broken bones.
Where are the tales of damsels who take purposeful jaunts
into the grim corners of yellowed groves,
with no intention of turning back?