Forth she goes, a flower like no other,
wandering towards the knells, hoping to catch a black bug.
She wants to traverse the lonely roads, meet jackals and greet wolves,
hang safety on a peg by the backdoor of her childhood home,
send away the cheerers; she wants to be.
Awhile she has thought, mulled her multitudes and strands of hair,
asked the Reaper to let her hold his scythe, for just a time.
Awhile she has sought
to drag danger down from the beach lodges of the gulf,
build a makeshift boat from dead logs and palm leaves, set out
across the roiling spiny backs of hungry beasts, to an Asian land.
However she steps, or sails, or runs, she stomps upon hot coals
and sea urchins and thistles, her footwork to Danse Macabre, scintillating
the gothic ghouls that eye her with suspicion, and pine for her.
She wants, to live angry, with trappings of aches draped on her ears,
kiss mambas each daybreak, stretch sleeplessness over her lengthy bod.
I, know not what to say, can not condemn nor condone her; I merely
but barely can watch her, as she scoops mercury and lead
from the dead ridden ground, and eats it like fruit.
And I, in a way, I love her, even though I can not know her, her vision
a gorgeous crow, perched upon my bedpost, singing.
Forth she goes, a rattle among flutes and violins.
Her skin of shiny foil, the night flanking her, her belly full of wiles
and whims. I can not say anything, but lower my gaze, and give, all sighs.