the young forest
the scent of apple blossom
the taste of sunrise.
In a frenzy of
swirling passion
we buried our
fledgling sainthood
deep in the walls of
the pious chapel
and together we fled
to the safety
of the lilac sea.
swimming in the
murmurs of the morning
and in the red and
purple sighs of sunset.
She has the blood moon in her hair
She has the blood moon in her hair
and her dress and all
her ribbons
are nailed to the
hardwood of the mast.
Standing at the helm
with the taste of
brine on her lips
and her pristine white
collar
abandoned in the freedom
of the sails
she steers her yellow
boat
to the porcelain altar of her newborn day.
Ophelia is now lost to me
darkening in the blurred horizon
darkening in the blurred horizon
an off-key song across her shoulders
and a grieving swallow at her side.
and a grieving swallow at her side.
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