Hysteric

Doth my heart shiver

upon her temple?

Upon my brow -

A golden ache

repenting,

retrieving,

all that is black.

I want it back.

I want it back.

'It felt so good to open my breasts to the moon,'

she said.

Walk upon the glass,

skin against grass.

Moon -

obsolete,

concrete, compact.

I want it back.

I want it back.

All that we crave

we leave behind,

in a puddle of the masses,

in a cradle of tears.

So wise is she;

so graceful, so careful, so timeless

beyond her years.

Her grave already dug,

she dances in the mud.

A solid honest flame.

Obsessing,

protecting;

early years of trauma, 

abuse and hurt.

And yet,

she dares to mention the 'dirt.'

''The Bitch does not share her sanctuary.''