the dragonfly treads lightly
on pure waters,
its body a brilliant indigo
on an azure blue lake.

I knew a girl,
Annie,
she lived by the countryside
away from the busy bustle
and loud stirrings of an engine.
Somewhere in which
she could appreciate birdsong.
She had a pond,
one that I visited often.
Unlike the reflection
one sees in puddles,
the pond held a hint of joy
in its still water.

A penny or coin
of copper, silver or gold
flipped into a fountain
with the promise of a granted wish,
a claim of the impossible.
And yet,
we sacrifice our currency
to pray for what we do not have
in hope that the fountain
will shower us with our desires.

you frequent the cotton field,
letting calloused, bare feet
feel the softness, like wool
and let the stream
tickle your toes.

I'd rather die by the hands of an assassin
using a rusty arrow or a dull blade
than allow you
to take my maidenhood.

you were too easy to break,
you didn't put up much of a fight,
i intimidated you quickly
and you shattered, like ceramic.

poison needn't come from a chalice,
it can come from words,
full of malice,
a strum of cords.

a reddening whip
on your back with a belt,
provoking hot tears
that could make copper melt.