We were married in a field of poppies,
blood and beauty, forgetfulness.
I wore black, just like my dream,
and the elegance of my neck
was lashed with a red silk ribbon
that trailed down my bare back.
I never saw you.
I only felt your hand
on my back against my heart.
I had a bouquet of pansies and truth,
although my father wanted ravens.
My feet were bare
and the nettles stung
as we were bound.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment