The Novelist

Princess Purple

Hers is a beauty of eloquent pen,

Trilogies etched with a holy amen;

Fragile and humble, she offers her soul,

Teardrops her parchment, resilience her scroll.

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Thick Skin

Not newborn skinpuddle ice, this.

Calloused, thick,

Barrier excludes blood

From heart of stone

Lest it beat and fulfill its function.

Stubborn film rejects sunshine,

Warmth,

Content to stagnate frozen

In primordial ooze

Lest the mess that lurks beneath

Be exposed, raw in its stench.

Your skin has kept emotions contained,

Given you a measure of control

Over the uncontrollable.

See here, the crown of thorns

Which pierces hearts of ice.

Take hold of the spear

Which alone penetrates

Thick skin.

Be melted.

Drip with awe.

And watch your dirty little secrets

Dry up and turn to dust

Before the Light of the World.

Viewed, The Obscure

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The ghost of a blade

slices arteries deep;

whispering words can

scream heart-songs to sleep;

invisible flames

scorch as well as a blaze;

impalpable fog

can extinguish sun’s rays.

Visionary

Catherine Woodbury twins

 

Delicate, yes.

Weak, no –

veins that bleed

for the world to see

hold volumes, streams,

encompass galaxies

and implode with atoms,

redefine strength

by tracing survival

by heart

in colours too true

to be seen

unless by naked eyes.

 

Her Imperfection

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She let him see what others couldn’t,

opened closets

and emptied drawers

and exposed her viscera.

She fully expected him to flinch,

toss her back

(a fish out of water,

the one who got away)

but he didn’t. Instead,

his tears met hers

and formed a river, a magnificent

fountain, rivulets which thickened

like blood. She revealed her nakedness

and he, finding her soul to

be more than oxygen,

found the pearl of great price

within her imperfection.

Let Me In

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Serrated plates,

rows of overlapping scales

went out with the disappearance of the dinosaurs,

died on a Medieval joust;

discard the armour.

Little one,

precious child,

let Me in.