Willow

 

Willow

Their spines arch
Into petals
Of the lily
White ghosts
Wrapped in
Whispers-

Haunting shadows
Of winged feathers
Tatooed
In ancient souls
Rooted deep
In earthy froth.

They grow
From veins of fire
Embers stoked
By gnarled bones-

Ignited in dreams
Of haze
And lightening glow
Uncontained
In puffs of smoke.

They hold the moon
In the cradle
Of their mouths
A silver pendant
Draped in ink-

Sunk below
A sunset crimson
Broken silhouettes
Against a russet
Storm.

Their well worn fingers
Brush grass
Of golden honey
Flecked with
Husks
Of forgotten
Cicadas-

Licking the throats
Of wild hearts
Weeping
A melody
Burnt orange
By the
Dying dusk.

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About delightfulness

One sweet, quirky, delightful individual I am.
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