Category: Poetry
Theme: Miscarriage, Loss, Self-Reliance
With all her wonders, she walked in the thin rope of
triumph:
She had a strong quotidian of fear—
A makeless lady she'd be called,
The whimper of a child they sought.
In the wind that followed her lips to heaven,
People thought of her as a tireless asinego:
“Marry a man, and life will bestow your wealth!”
She used to bold it tightly that she was the mistress of
literature.
The wind gathered the courage to leave her marks,
She learned to have her own signiory:
Adoptious lady of the poetry—
Ravin life of the haunting mimicry.
Her kirtle would not have to go and breeze,
If tomorrow told her to calm down at ease.
And people went to lure their lunes,
The spears they had wounded her.
She would not see a child of life:
If she got old with writhled skin,
And the heist above went to spin.
One strike of the soul—a whittle deep under.
Even if the loss mammocked her,
She stayed alive in the depth of words.
She'd pule to write the withered soul—
Metaphors couldn't cover the living truth.
And the rust of ballpoint encarved her rights,
It was the child that wandered around the haunting memory.
Peradventure it wasn't the supposed destiny,
The pugging hope fell so under.
In the poetry she found herself;
In the hope of it—she teemed herself.
In the fifth month, she'd write to calm herself—
What could've been there was the ninth of what she lost.
Painting: Galatea of the Spheres (1952) by Salvador Dali
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