Today, Love: An Anthology of Self

Exalted One

She knows how to dance as if the wind is her muse,
but her sail runs on soul power--
every pixel made up for by a paint stroke.
Real art is a curio,
but her name is the kind of thing you shouldn't write
so she can burn eternal;
the vestal flame,
the phoenix's downfall,
who sprouts flowers from the windowsill
who spreads chemicals into irises,
and serenity like an airborne pathogen.
A rare sight:
her aromatic aura of acrilic,
spoons in the flower pot,
side-breasted garden,
lacerations laced by oils.
"It's worth the wait."
A long path it has been...
will be.
synthetic-licked wounds heal faster.