Irish Rose ~ Brandewulf — MORALITY PARK

Precious and painted,
She does not seem
To view this world
The same as me.

Reflected thoughts
Through smokey lens
Reveals a reality
Where angels lie
In orgiastic layers
And grasping groups.

Her flawless, flowered skin
Tells the truthful tales.
Memories molded and folded,
Punctuated with pauses
And clauses that sing,
Nay shout, her defiance.

Rainbows bow before her.
They sigh as she rises,
Inverting their colors
To flow, cascading like ink
Through her veins until
It runs from her mouth.

Magic these moments
That grace her lips
With words so perfect
They birth celestial signs.

I look to the heavens.
Head turning to twilight
To glance at the sun
that dances to the morrow.

Yet, what I see? Minuscule.
Half what her mind paints
In pointed, poetic strokes
From a brush so gentle.

Her palette of colors,
That she alone commands
From behind those shades
Defying and defining beauty,
Draws all eyes inward.

© Brandewulf 2018

via Irish Rose ~ Brandewulf — MORALITY PARK

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