"swatted" poems
"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love
We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands
She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up
I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't
She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
Moths are swatted
butterflies kissed
Pollution in fog
but beauty in mist
Shades of skin
the lighter adored
Loveliest lauded
the average ignored
Wilting flowers
tossed and snubbed
Only the beautiful
are cherished and
loved
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
the river is
drinking it
sequins
blankets
the river runs past
hobos
unidentified
water fowl
two trolls
taking shelter under
the bridge
there’s conversation
in another language
fiendish brains connecting
fiendish yet
beautiful
thunder
tampons
a turtle
a naked boy
on the patio
rain
definitely
rain
unmatched
and the steam
coming from the
bridge
*once there was a troll
on my face
and I swatted it
with a broom
but it came back
it came back
with you*
laughter pounds
with the rain
laughter that wears
emotion like
skin
soft
elastic
still pink
bouncing
on the river’s surface
breaking
absorbed
sustenance for
the trolls
like fiends with faces
like minds with names
these two connect
with spark
and the rain
falls
the stillness under
nature’s
machinery
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
At the Zoo
Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs
Then gunpowder
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.
The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-
show us some skin!
Covering your ears
Eyes fastened-
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence
Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell
The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about
Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
liberty synonyms.
Arresting the too free
At the Zoo,
The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Tonight, I spoke into the darkness,
No stars to light my way,
The black void all encompassing
My words drifting up in ribbons,
I waited for something, anything to happen
I felt a rumble that was akin to ripples emanating from a drop of water hitting a puddle
I was small next to the impossible,
And when it spoke back, it changed me
The blank canvas of stark black was pierced by blades of light,
The sky becoming a shutter in a rain storm
Blowing open and closed
The words came and wrapped themselves across my body in its entirety
Constricting my air flow
I felt myself shatter
An implosion of feeble glass
Ricocheting through a skeleton of paper, reflecting the brightness above inside ripped skin
I was nothing.
I didn't exist.
I floated in an incomprehensible place that had no end, no walls
No ceiling or floor
Just illumination in every direction
I opened my eyes
And was blinded by an incredible radiance
I shut my eyes tight and swatted in front of me
My hand struck something metal and I yelped in pain
I shot up and stared downward
Towards the desklamp unplugged on the floor
Breathing heavily, I sat upright in my bed,
Struggling to pull away words that had already sunken in
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
Born a baby girl,
they said with tears in their eyes
"She will be soft, and quiet, and beautiful."
They stared at her with undying love
knowing she would one day fit perfectly
in a mans trophy case.
So she grew and was tended to,
a rose ripe for the picking.
I say rose because roses are lovely.
Plain. Soft. Supple. Silent.
Her words had always been white crayon on blank paper,
mosquitoes swatted at summer picnics,
ear infections that invaded the canal but never quite reached the brain.
She was taught to dress all in white
and never speak up at the dinner table.
Opinions are for crazy people and so is any splash of colour.
She sat in her silence until her white dress started to blend into the walls.
Invisibility is a super power!
Just watch any action movie that wasn't made for little girls.
When lying in the dark it is tempting
to raise a hand to ones face.
See how no distinction can be made between a human body
and the air surrounding it?
Imagine doing this in the light of day.
There came a time where she could no longer handle the sight
of her own emptiness
and squeezed her eyes shut to discover galaxies
hiding beneath her eyelids.
She smiled and colours came surging through the cracks in her teeth.
Staining her white face
and her white dress
and her white walls.
Her Mother screamed and her Father cried.
No boy would ever love a girl they could see.
One with flowers blossoming beneath her feet
and suns exploding behind her eyes.
They mourned her that day.
Her silence was never supposed to grow volumes.
To them she died the day she came alive.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
He hands her bouquets
She swats each away to see
Guns firing petals
She cannot recant
The burn of spells cast daily
Ring ‘round the roses
And we all fall down
Iron-hued blood that stained
Empty bellies rouge
It bled everywhere
Darkened slick of sick roses
She won’t let him cry
Flowers from his eyes
Or hanging paper dollies
Says that it’s okay
Says that it’s okay
She can’t spill bone-dry flowers
To drown in the Nile
She swats each bouquet
Why won’t she just let him care?
He’s swatted away
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
I asked the mule just yesterday
Whether he ever envies the bay
Who burrows her soft, brown nose in the oats
Laid out for her pleasure, to brighten her coat.
The mule responded, with just a hint of chagrin,
“I know nothing of the world or the way I should live;
There are others who tell me this for my own good, thus:
My life is blissfully simple, yet lush—
“Lush,” he continued, while he swatted the flies
Gathered round his muddy coat and panicked eyes,
“Lush is my life that they make so secure:
By bringing me down, they make me demure.
“And,” he concluded, with a wheezing sigh,
“It’s for my own good that I’m covered with flies,
And for the good of the people that the bay gets the oats,
While I struggle and toil catching flies with my coat.”
I meant to ask the mule again
On the issue of his grievous chagrin,
But a crowd led the keening bay out of her stall,
And the world stopped to answer her demanding call.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
Who am I?
Who am I?
A rebel? A hero?
A monster with blood and bones?
Not one of these things.
A little lion girl, maimed and alone.
A coward, needy and ashamed,
A girl trapped in darkness, begging for a light,
But all she could manage were stumbles through the night.
In the midst of it all, the struggle and fall, I felt my legs give out,
Weak and worn out, I lay in the pit.
For what shall I fight for? This hell? This ****
Many gathered around and yelled 'you can't quit',
They rattled but could not touch, could not help, for they too are sick.
I heard a gentler voice in the crowd, and I wanted to answer,
But dropped my head in the mud,
With every effort, the pain just grows tenser.
In my heart, I asked "Who are You?", "Where have You been?" I spat.
Still, You called my name, and cleared the brush and pitfalls so I could get up and walk back,
But I was trapped in a pit, I was ashamed, without a thought, I sent You away,
Still, You came closer and knelt down to my level so that we were face to face,
"What are You doing?" I bitterly noted, when I saw that You reached for me,
I then swatted your hand and said, "No one tends to these scars, it's too much of a demand".
But you replied; "Not for me, I heal every wound with My love and My own right hand."
So I just sighed and gave into His embrace, what did I have to lose?
With Your hands on my back You picked me up,
You took my feet and set them on a rock,
You breathed into my heart and for the first time, I felt life,
You touched my eyes with your finger, and I saw heaven on earth,
You whispered to my mind, "You can trust Me, Holly. I am the way the truth and the light"
And in that very moment I knew, I was reborn with the Son,
I walked to the mirror and saw a new reflection, a brave face with purpose,
A lioness who may inherent all of His kingdom under the sun,
And so, this is the end of a testimony, I run down a new road now,
With my hand in God's hand and a smile on my face remembering His first embrace,
Wherever I travel, even in the valley of the shadow of death, I keep a hand stretched out and a heart of trust,
Because My Lord never fails, and already He has conquered all things for us.
And now You're here,
My heart is at rest,
You crushed my fears.
My life is blessed.
I found the savior,
Praise Jesus Christ.
I will serve you, great God,
For the rest of my days.
For what life can become,
Living for Amazing Grace!
Till kingdom come,
Till kingdom come,
Glory in the highest,
I lift up all praise,
I will love You forever,
My Lord and His Son.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
I ate a man once .
First I caught him by the eyes ,
Plucked those souls out and called em mine .
Why ?
Cause surprise ,
There was me reflected back in perfect symmetry
Pawing him
Back and forth
Called him closer and
Swatted him up .
Nibbled the fingers who reached to stroke my mane .
But **** ,
This prey loved pleasure and pain .
All I did was dpi and sway and stalk
Purring the sweetest talk
He learned the rules
Only watch
So I could gaze
At my shaking prey ;
As he swear and want .
I licked my canines
Wiggling in secret heat
At all the desire done by little ole me .
Then I pounced
Took him down
Cracked open his chest
And cleaned him out
Plucked out those electric strings
Cause under was the sweetest meat .
It beat .
Slightly torn
I bit , bitter sweet .
To my stomach it sank
Growling as it turned to stone .
Heavy lead , love , & bone .
Gasping as it poisoned as
His souls shone/shown
I made it run in his
Every vein
With my deadly game of
Pleasure and pain .
As he slipped away ,
His weakness kept at bay .
With a smile .
Every ******* day . ™
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
I spoke to a wasp today. And he told me his story. He spoke to me about his childhood, and watching his own family being murdered. It was a bright and warm Friday evening. His father had ventured out and flew among the humans that lived in the home of his home. The smell of liquor permeated the air, as did the barbeque that was nearly too done. He drew close to the man of the home, just to watch and observe the scene. The man didn't like it too much. So he swatted him. It didn't hurt him, however, but it did confuse him. And in his confusion he landed upon the man and planted his stinger within him. The man slammed his hand down, cursing as the wasp's father's guts bled out. There was nothing the wasp could do but watch. The woman of the house asked if the man was ok. The man cursed once more and slammed his glass on the ground. The woman became upset and demanded to know why. The man had no answer. He merely just grabbed a gas can, took another ...swig of liquor, and walked up to the wasp's home and began dousing it in gasoline. The woman freaked out, afraid of what was about to happen. The man merely cursed at her as well and shoved her to the ground. When she tried to get back up he kicked her in the face. The blood poured. The wasp's home was now soaked in a lethal liquid. The man had a sinister grin as he glanced at his crying and bleeding woman lying on the ground, and he laughed as he lit a match and threw it on the wasp home. The nest went up in flames, and shortly after the home of the man did too. The little wasp escaped, unable to save the lives of his screaming family being burnt alive. The man merely laughed; the woman lay crying; the nest burnt to ashes; the house burnt down. So now the little wasp is all grown up. And when I asked what he wants to do with his life, all he replied was, "I want to sting people...because it seems that is all every creature is meant to do." ♥
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
A weeping walking stick
Carved with love into a marionette
Brought to life with a magic wand
Kicked him and ran away
Had him thrown in jail
Swatted away the chirping insect
Fell asleep by the fire
Woke up with my feet scorched off
He freed
And fashioned me new feet and fed me a pear
Books for my first day
Traded for ticket for the show
Earned five golden coins
Hung upside down by a fox and a feline
The enchantress saved me and tells me not to lie
Robbed and thrown in prison
Bailed out by a chicken farmer
Watching out for weasels
And given my freedom
He’s not home, he made a boat to search for me
I must find him and throw myself into the sea
Hard work has brought me flesh
Now I’m on an island of careless fun
I begin to resemble an ***
He hawing off a cliff
Swallowed by a fish only to find him
We are safe but he is sick
The enchantress comes once more
He is well and I’m a real boy
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
a million men rushed in,
one walked out.
his blade like a red candied lolly.
in his wake ,the silhouette of the grim reaper
has the apocalypse arrived?
if so is this man death himself?
more rushed in,more were swatted like flies
the shogun cowered in fear
the army was in disarray .
out of the chaos walked a mere child,
walked over to the red mist.
pulled out a katana,
tempered from the blood of a god .
swung,popped the mans's head like a pimple.
the child turned to the shogun and said,
'he aint death.he's dead.'
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
Hello little fly lying there on the ground
Did you ever stop to think what end would come around?
Did you ever wonder how it may all end?
What kind of death that fate did wait to quickly your way send?
Most of the time generally you get old and die
All the buzzing stops at once, and in silence there you lie
Another common way in which you may have died
Is when your inside someones house and they spray insecticide
You start to get all dizzy and fly iratically
As the chemicals penetrate and affect you dramatically
After a few seconds though, you stop flying around at all
On your back you spin around break dancing there you sprawl
Another way that's quicker and happens just like that
Is when you're swiftly swatted and you insides go 'Ker-splat!'
That is rather messy as everyone can see
All your guts and blood get spread. Oh my goodness me!
All your little entrails and intestines so fine
And look at that. Your blood is red! The same color as like mine!
Sometimes there are even eggs that get squirted out
A death and an abortion, simultaneously no doubt
There's also an electric zapper that does a real fast job
Twenty thousand volts that your life from you does rob
You simply explode and your parts vaporize
Into fly mist without any time to say your last goodbyes
But the slowest and most gruesome by far seems to be
The fly strip that beckons you with a smell of food for free
As soon as you land there thinking it's a treat
You find yourself stuck there by your six little feet
The more you struggle though, the more the glue does bind
But it seems to take very long, you for death to find
Sometimes you squirm there for oh so many hours
Sometimes so stuck moving would take super powers
And then what is this grossness that I see
Little tiny baby worms squirming out of thee
I wonder if they realize that you're in trouble dire
And decide to abandon ship to escape the deadly mire
I guess it is that you flies have no morals or loyalty
The only thing on your minds survival seems to be
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
We flew endlessly, miles above the surface, engines humming.
I looked down through a hole in the clouds; saw emerald fields
and a dirt road seldom traversed. I found myself wondering if
someone looking up could see that hole I was looking through.
our eyes would meet in a nod of existential brotherhood, and
we would become eternally bonded as fellow humans.
I doubted it, though, for a slate of gray clouds loomed above yet.
Mother Nature saw it right to hide us in her own natural camouflage.
So we hung in limbo, between the layers of fog, neither here nor there.
I hate to fly, and my mind wandered to the worst-case scenario;
we'd fall down through the hole to smash upon the crops in a fiery heap.
Probably catastrophic engine failure. Or perhaps swatted out of mid-air
by a petulant giant swinging a smoked turkey leg. You know,
like the one's you can find at the county fair. I gripped my wife's hand,
noticing how painfully sweaty mine was, wishing to be anywhere else.
But, in spite of a few bumps and the useless rise in my blood pressure,
the plane narrowly escaped catastrophic engine failure in that brief
moment. I became excited for our impending arrival in Nassau.
The shining sun, blended drinks, fish fries; still assuming we got there
in one piece. Drum beats from the Junkanoo tattooed through
my fingers quietly on the armrest. We would dance deep into night,
then retire to the beach to laugh at old stories with new friends.
I'm sure if we were spotted from down below by all
the hard working humans, our freedom would be envied,
possibly even hated. I became a young Marine Corporal once again,
standing guard on a frozen winter's night to protect the secrets
of that quiet hole in the clouds, my fellow passengers,
and even the mean old giant with turkey grease glistening on his lips.
It was my somber duty.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
There’s a wasp in the house
He snuck right on in
But I’m all alone
Wearing nothing but skin
Buzzing and humming
He moves lightning fast
He’s angry I’m sure
No need to ask
He needs to be caught
Or if not, then swatted
I wish I had foresight
Enough to have plotted
An action and course
For exactly this thing
But it did not occur
To me this morning
Now I know you might say
What about me
But you see that just simply
Won’t, and can’t be
For I’m hunkered On down
In the closet all snug
There is no way in hell
I’ll go near that **** bug
So here I will stay
With clothes all rolled up
Wedged in the crack
So the wasp can’t checkup
I gather reserves
Of brave that I’ve stashed
And face this mean wasp
No longer abashed
I gave him a stern talking
Told him what’s up
then demanded he crawl
In to my tea cup
Walked back to the door
And hear a loud “hey kid”
Then slowly it dawned
That I am still naked
I held my head high
As my skin flushed
A wasp in a teacup
A lady in the buff
I released him unharmed
Still on my task
Then turned right around
And smacked my own ***
To all of the neighbors
Staring at me
I ended with the most
Proper curtsy
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 1:08 AM UTC
Parallel to you who finds comfort in the light,
I find peace where you flutter, in the depths of night.
You’re chased and swatted and hurtled outside,
I do hope you can find somewhere bright to hide.
For my darkness is my contentment, peaceful, serene
My mind falls absent, happily empty of the obscene.
Does the darkness outside, fill you with trouble and worry
Like the impending rising sun sets my mind a flurry?
Oh wise old moth, please stay as long as you need,
My bedside lamp can be your refuge, no need to plead.
You don’t have to tell me why you’re here, or open up to me,
Cause your presence here alone is a pleasure to see.
In twenty-four hours you’ll be looking for new lights to borrow
But please remember, wise moth,
I’ll be awake and lonely again tomorrow.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:08 AM UTC
I spent seven days staring at burgundy walls - you always hated the colour I chose.
Day one I tried to cry, to mourn, to breathe. No matter how loud I screamed, you never came back to me.
Day two my throat was raw, and water might have eased me for a moment, but my god there was no cure to the pain of missing you.
Day three I swatted at worried hands and closed my eyes, but I had to keep opening them to make certain the walls weren't really closing in on me.
Day four I whispered my own name a million different times, just trying to find a way I might roll it off my tongue the way you used to.
Day five I forgot the sound of your laughter and I tried so ******* hard to just get across the room, to the phone, maybe if I called you would pick up. Maybe you could just remind me, just once more.
Day six my body burned and I forgot how my front yard looked, but I still couldn't find it in myself to throw my feet over the edge of our - my - bed, and walk outside.
Day seven I still stared at the same four walls, but I noticed how much I loved the burgundy paint, and that I never had to hear your complaints about it again.
Day eight I stood up, despite the aching in my chest and I admired burgundy walls for being a beacon of hope, and of forgiveness, amongst the vast sea of blame you left me to swim in.
I don't know how many days its been now, but I never did repaint our - my - room.
You're the kind of heartbreak that will always bring another day one every so often,
But as long as my walls are burgundy, staring at them for seven days will never be too heavy a price for finally freeing myself from you.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
the sun was blood orange,
dripping murderously into the
periwinkle sky, the trees were
angrily shaking their fists at
passersby, shadows looming
on the ground beside them.
the air seemed to vibrate,
abuzz with swarming voices
of the past and i swatted at the
sound in hopes that they would
not blast through the silence
i was sheltered in. it was the
end of something perilous yet
beautiful. love bit the dust almost
as hard as when it initially sank
it’s hungry teeth into the hull
of my heart, and no matter
how far away i ran
from the truth, it would pop
up in the window reflections, or
on the side of an expensive car,
staring me dead in the eyes
and i could not face
it—at least not yet—
i ran until my legs
betrayed me, no amount
of space could save me,
i just did not have a choice.
a ringing sounded
in the pit of my ears,
and when the clamor
cleared, what was left was
the remnants of your velvet
voice, drowning out any
and every other audible noise.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Every year my family gathers around the kitchen table
(boxed wine and chatter
about distant binge-drinking aunts)
When I was young my sister carved the turkey
(swatted my hand when I reached for
the carving knife. "I want to do it this year!")
I am in her place at the kitchen table
(boxed wine and chatter
about the bruises on my knees)
I will forever stand in the kitchen
(no one swats my hand when I reach for
the carving knife. "Maybe I'll do it this year.")
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
I met an old man who would strike up a pose
with a burgundy ferret he called Arbor Rose
he smiled as I focused and yelled to him cheese
said "a mind functions best when it’s 40 degrees"
He wore a black cap and carried a cane
and the locals would muse that he lost half his brain
I watched as he passed by the Warfield Hill grave
as he swatted a fly and gave me a wave
He opened the gate and fastened a lock
and pulled from his pocket a grandfather clock
he reached for the sky and parted a seam
and the ferret spoke out, said "it’s only a dream"
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
A fledgling girl fleeing from the Queen’s sharp verdict,
hunting for a getaway, she exhales in relief
as an old apple tree beckons from the yard
and swathes her in a warm embrace.
The long knotted trunk and crumpled limbs
seem the most exquisite of hiding places.
All the stinging from sharp barbed wire
words swatted away by lovely bounty-laden branches.
Her sores swept away by the summer breeze and tangy
taste of **** fruit. All memory lulled by the gentle murmurs
of the suns rays and the warm matted bark of an old friend.
The princess, now sheltered from snarling dragons
and malevolent witches, rests serenely
in her sanctuary of leaves and daydreams.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC