Morning appears in its blemished robe.
Gaping at sun to unleash history untold.
Bleeding questions from the ink of
Horizon.
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
secrets.
Of an island marooned and it's nightly keepers.
Yet, she rushes towards a future
incongruent
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