She knows the ocean like the back of her hand, with its
forceful waves and persuasive currents.
She knows the ocean like the back of her hand, the men who
love her are all made of sand.
Oh she knows the ocean like the back of her hand.
In the garden she ruffles her skirt and plants away the
dreaded hurt.
She pretends she has fallen far and that the scar implanted
on her delicate skin is a painting made from a man of sin.
And with her bedded golden curls she placed a broken kiss
upon the slanted orifice of a stone man with his arm outraised and his heart
concaved.
She is sliding through the waters with her head above the
waves and she is singing of the daisies that she caught along the way.
Once the sun casts its rays upon her supple breasts she’s
already halfway out the door with her shoes upon her feet and her guard above
her head.
Under her mattress she hides her deepest secrets, the eyes
of ghouls stare through the coils and crawl to the surface where they run amuck
of things and laugh once her life becomes a circus.
But where she dangles her feet near the fisheries there is
still something that is certain—she came from beyond the ocean and was birthed
by a legless serpent.
And where the scales cover the nape of her neck she is
spinning while swimming down beyond the swiftest rifts.
With sparkling eyes she peeks between her fingertips and is submerged
by a budding fever.
Drained of glow she is now a distant orb sacrificed by the
ocean’s tale and surrendered by the moonlight’s orbit.
Divided by the echoing breath of feathers, scarlet, they have
drifted beyond the fountains,
Beyond the petrified chimeras and into the puddles that will be forgotten.
And with a crown of autumn burnt hair she is floating deep
in the riverbed while the birds continue singing in her head.
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