she comes from a world
of puddles and stars.
from a world where
lion and lamb play
innocently, happily together.
a world where she wears
her heart on her sleeve,
and hopes and trusts although
it hurts hurts hurts
every single damn time.
she, the bright eyed lamb,
has been shot,
been stabbed, been cut up
and bled 'till
she could no more,
'till she'd drowned
in blood and tears,
reunited with her precious stars
at last.
after i die,
i like to think
that someone will plant
a tree over my body.
couples will carve their
"everlasting" love
here i am,
foolishly trying to describe
the feeling of sitting up
high in an oak
and writing poetry.
here i am,
watching the sunset
above long green grass
and typing into an ugly
love, you say,
is as tenderly golden as
buttercups in may,
as apollo's flaxen hair.
and you wish for a lover.
fated together
as achilles was with
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