She ponders below the August night-sky pregnant with stars,
Face upon the riverbed, acknowledging her mirrored reflection.
Bones built from rose stems, with a bud of cranial light.
Her moral compass etched from crossroads and jagged bends,
Feeling the bosom of the earth peddling among all divisions of time,
with only woven patches of past memories,
Trying to ascend through the despondency, yet explore the mysteries of her untraveled self.
She longed for warmth, and a flask shaped hand to tenderly hold her orphan heart,
Cooing her worries like a mourning dove.
Chain smoked lips tinted with burgundy,
Disarming herself under the Satellite of the moon,
A lustrous prose of unspoken thoughts among a mental meadow of insanity,
blossoming at the waking hour,
Fallen tears nourish the evening primrose planted on her engraved tomb that read,
"And she loved..."
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