Poems from miraesu

The Quiet Race
Waves of sunlight reflect on our skin, —or off our sweat— the second layer, like a steamed onion. You grin at me slightly, hot from play,...
Speak to Me, Golden Lady
She is not a fish, she is not a chicken, but a woman. Fearless front, unflinching, a huntress in the Savannah, proud…and subdued. The...