The Invisible Child.

No perfumed bliss
or port dripping petals.
A vessel, alive, absent living.
I tread ground men fear...
where trees are blind and faceless violas scream.

Voiceless virgin of communication,
without shades, only sprays of grey,
In limbo, where rainbows never smile.
Thoughts bombard,
sharp whips of hail slash my pimpled skin,
I weep, yearn yellow,
crave emerald Ocean’s hues.

No memories of mantle Tulips,
filled chalices of cochineal wine...
Just Gooseberries dripping sour,
my shadow crippled, 
personality lame and loose threaded.

A thousand deaths dance side by side,
Roses, stripped of innocence...
they weep till the Moon turns to ash...
as churlish air sponges Sun’s chrome
the death card half-turns,
my dark Tower already crumbled.
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Sasha Wolff 2 March 2009 Grand Rapids USA.