The skin I wear is becoming too tight.
It's colours are fading and going pale;
The seams are tearing, the edges are frayed
And dark blood seeps through the stitching.
Beneath I wear a dress made of mist.
I lie, perfumed by pine forests.
My eyes are the colour of sunlight through leaves
and my nails are grimed with soil.
The essence of who I am
lies fierce
dormant
and darkly beautiful -
as I shed this useless shroud.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
sounds like your inner dryad (forest spirit) is yerning for realese, set it free!! :)
ReplyDelete