She dancingly sways,
a tree, grown old,
draped in amber, in gold.
And while the wind wracks,
her skirt holds tight
until she deems fit,
losing her gown to Jack's
choice linens of white.
Now standing,
bare, taut skin,
a woody skeleton.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
