Self Image

Her hair, touched by the sun falls effortlessly into place, shaping her pale face as she looks to me with grace.

Her blue eyes call to me like a siren as I fall deeper and deeper into her gaze. I catch myself gasping as if the icy sea has found its way into me and into my heart. I am pulled into her ocean eyes.

She is made from stardust as she dances alone underneath the sky, wishing the stars could hear her battle cry for she dances to the hum of the earth, to the drum of her Power.

She knows too much and yet speaks so little that in her stillness I find myself yearning for

her voice to speak truths to me, to tell me the old rhymes, to tell me things are going to be alright.

Her hands are gentle and soft to the touch as she sews and weaves marvellous stories that makes me lose all my worries while she lives in purgatory

she lives in purgatory…

A prison set to her own design there is no room to call her mine

Decorated with hatred, Every compliment is negated

Cold and alone any help is thrown, She believes her fate is sown

Possessed by stubbornness she guides herself with a dooming compass

Blind and deaf to herself, there is no helping her as the darkness inside her prison begins to stir every compliment, and awareness begins to blur

…

Her hair falls effortlessly into place

Her blue eyes call to me

She is made from stardust

She knows too much but speaks so little

Her hands are gentle and soft

She lives in her prison of her own design.

I cannot call her mine