My daughter is the eye of the storm
Chaos reigns around her
And she is the cause of it.
My daughter is the wolves at my door
Howling at the moon of her loneliness
Daring for someone to cross her path.
My daughter is a smoke trail from a witch's cottage
She has the scent of something sweet and kind
Leading the weak to her door.
My daughter is the Minotaur
Not even a maze
Can stop her from tearing down these walls.
YOU ARE READING
In Bloom
Poetry"FRAGILE, delicate, broken- words that I hope you never become." A letter from a mother to her future daughter. [#71 in Poetry 1.9.16]
