I am a gothic rose
Black
Or steel
Rose
Though
I only do the look
For it is tasteful
Not that I represent
The dark
Only the light
I represent.

Them bones
Them bones
We have to
Collect all
The bones
To give them justice
To put them to the rest
That they deserve
Them bones
Them bones.

As I look up
Into the stars
I see the sparkle of the eyes
Of the man who loved me
Of the man who nearly killed
My faith
And my being.
He will never ruin the
Stars for me.

The ghost of
A young Tibetan woman
Who died of a
Mutilated heart
Stalks the streets
For the one who
Killed her
She had no time
No space
No present
Until someone mentioned
Her name
She then finds time
Space,
The past
The present
The future
For that some gave her life back.
Her justice
Her some validation.

To any
Angry
Women
To any
Heartbroken
Women
To any traumatized
Women
Out there
There is an outlet
Art
And writing.
Do these to things
They shall take
The edge of the emotions
They shall heal you.

Even in defeat
I rose to my feet
Like a pheanox raising
From the ashes
I reinvent myself
Inside and out
You have mutilated
My heart
I shall put romance
Aside
Knowing that it isn’t
Dead
It just not the new me.
The stronger me.

One strange spring day
In England
There behind a field bushel
All is blue and purple
Three butterflies
Varying in sizes
Touch down on
Inspector Morse’s
Car which was also blue
In this painting.