Her lips, sealed by the witch’s thread and needle,
Locking in what urges to scream from the insanity
Overflowing the cusp of her heart, drowning
In the cryptic silence, overly aware of the ripples
Surrounding her, inching it’s grasp closer,
She shivers in the lasting echo of a fictitious howl
To doubt the cool wind that wants to carry her through,
Disturbed by the offing that incarcerates her
In her very own mind, as she scurries to the corner
Hoping it’s tall curvy stature will cloak her,
Keeping paranoia as the pillow where she rests
While hiding from any light that shows its warmth,
She slowly reaches out, slightly dipping the tip of her nail
Into embrace, but quickly shrinks back into the collected
Darkness, feeling comforted by the crawling fog,
Every serpent has found and taken from her garden
Closing her gates eternally, and banishing the luminous,
What can break the spell, that perches upon the cloud?
What chance is there for the caged voice, to sing again?
Living the rest of her life, fearful of the word Love.
©DorianPoe2016
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