I voice words
from depth of chambers
steeped in light
covered slight
my throat an emblem of tone
instrument to hone
Prayers flee
from a bosom struck
It wavers
comes astride
a golden bull for the ride
into waning green
Heart and spleen
I hold them in fist
The splinters
I resist
I am priestess of the old
My story’s untold
Reading of the poem:
You must be logged in to post a comment.