Take away the root of bitterness. Runaway from this Halloween town, where my false self resides and my child mind in code.
Always, clinging to ideals, be devoured in the fire. Did I sacrifice myself for another’s paradigm? Like a bulimic’s excessive doodles— I’m perished in this fickleness.
I want to run on higher ground and walk among beautiful people. And to have my heart slide down that cylinder rose. In the fields of lavender, where I make conversations with Joan of Arc.
Poem: Naomi Ruth S.W. Photo: Pinterest