The dark eyes of a compassionate
Gentle Vulcan gaze into me.
He is to the galaxy what
Elves are to my twilight glens and
Willowing forest fantasies. Their
Silken hair and trailing sleeves linger
At the edge of my poem. I am
Writing of murder now.
Some murderers I sympathize with
I think in parallels of their motives.
I do not want to
Get along with my heroes
I want to be my heroes. I want to fill their gaps.
I love gold but
Never wear it. Copper laces my wrists.
The styles I admire
The sweeping dress hemmed with vanity
The daring cuts where hearts have broken
Do not suit me.
Words choke in my throat
I sing and silence fills me
I dance with wild
Briefly I exist within the cosmos I
Hold inside me
Briefly my hair grows past my eighth rib
Briefly I am perfect
I am perfect.
Artwork by Nick Reeves
Written for the 15th Experiments In Fiction Poetry Challenge: write a poem in response to the above artwork.
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