Mine Na 13.

A blanket of camouflage

Don’t you wanna touch?
Her soul’s intricate web of lace.
Her crushed velvet skin.
She’s been on fire for centuries.
Every birth, born with cinder eyes.
Past deaths so violent;
Left violet raised marks
In the next skin,
Every sin a tender shame.
Provoked to pinch and pull at her flesh.
A pattern maimed.
A timid frame.
Before, behind closed doors,
Leaped in camera’s eye.
Until out the window,
She layed in crimson snow.
Now in this life, her 22nd urgency,
Has faded in a winter’s remorse.
And she floats on into the age of 34.
In zenith, no more.

Poem & Art: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt

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