Where the wild things are

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?


This poem is about: 


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