Monday, April 4, 2011

Morning appears in its blemished robe.
Gaping at sun to unleash history untold.
Bleeding questions from the ink of
Beseeching gods to protect her uncouth son;
From the devils hiding beneath her
Flawed skin-
As she toys phantasmal dreams in shades of pink

Her skinny hands tied up with boundless
Of an island marooned and it's nightly keepers.
Yet, she rushes towards a future
Like dew spreading its legs on the windowpane
A morning, like many mornings refuse to settle.
Her life replete with a child and a chisel.

painting-Amrita Shergill
its degeneration- shewolf

1 comment:

  1. Your language always stands....makes it a tad cumbersome at times, i've to go over it a few times but it's always worth the trouble. A good muse this time Wolf.