An older poem. Feels like a September poem.
She thinks…”We are all skulls, jouncing in our heads. Destined to be a stone.”
She wishes…God would make her into an opal; as she’s burning her cells. Wasted on a nicotine fever.
Will she ever understand her sadness? And there is a heaviness in her chest, that shouldn’t be ignored.
Familiarize her death, as delicate as the monarch’s wing.
With all the ways she pacifies herself, still the memory…the mention of his name seizes her heart.
She will rise up, Be forever lost in the infatuated morning.
Poem by: Naomi Ruth Saharski W. Photo by: Naomi Ruth Saharski W.