she feels now
like a planet out of orbit:
aimless, but the kind
where her arms are as weightless as souls,
and her closed eyes taste bliss
in the buttery warmth of the morning sun.
Cool winds whisper and tease
the hair at her damp nape-
Her head tips skyward,
in grateful prayer and
Her heart brims, her lungs burst
with speckled fairy-dust in yellow light
and she's thankful for this new life:
for the soft warmth, the salt-laced breeze,
and for herself.
//finally, at peace.
~
written: 4 October 2016 12:17 am// unedited
YOU ARE READING
Tasting Hearts
PoetryPoetic gibberish from a teenage logophile where a girl writes what her fingers tell her to on the skeleton of rhyme, rhythm and reason.
