Goldenrose

First came the ballgowns and the beheadings.

Six wives of Henry the eighth, and divorce or death were brought upon all but one...

And your dark, knotted hair falls, 

   trailing along and settling 

        in the crevice of collarbone, 

ravine of spine,  

When I turned 17, it was synonymous with the beginning of the end. 

It felt like landing in the jaws of a 

hungry, 

hungry wolf 

that would maul me to pieces. 

A penny from a young girl with pigtails and a toothy grin, a dime from a poet in a baseball cap, and a quarter from an elderly lady on her morning stroll.

We were rising.

With every thread tied together, by those who wanted to catch hold —

Those with knotted breath and clasped hands 

Weaving together a dream, cast out into a sea of stars —