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give me a girl

a singing willow

weeping dreams

into her pillow,

stitching stars

for troubled times

and blue;

we sail with her in

pea-green boats

to Jumblies

far and few

give me a girl

a falling lark

who cringes

at her sordid arts;

a girl of clay

for pity’s sake,

God, for pity’s sake;

dolls pump hearts

that will not break

and switching smiles

of silky sass,

they feed on lies

like cake.

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Written by

zita-consani

South African

Published: Apr 1, 2012
LinesWords: 2577

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