No sounds echo from her lips,
as her thoughts tangle in a web of desire.
For underneath the cherry tips,
lies the mosquée in which they all conspire.
She is chained to all their pries,
the ode of this trembling supremacy.
She is the apple of their eyes,
the ones to which they serve delicacy.
Yet still her words do not express,
her personality, rampant as a blazing fire.
For underneath the prayers they repress,
the urge to flee has ignited this pyre.
For in the garden of her surround,
the wolves bark, while she, they hound.
For ties embedded, loving sound,
the sparks are still nowhere to be found.
As underneath the garden's tree,
lies this sad woman; who is not me.
For underneath the garden's tree,
lies the pretty queen: only she.
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
