In the silence
of mists and haze,
a poem falls from my sunny hairdo.

a Garland of potions & subservience,
an epoch of timeless gravity.
sitting and sewing a tale
inside my neon stomach.

A blue light,
so tangerine running through here,
lost in the evening,
lost in me.

I hear the garlands of solitude,
I watch the trepidations,
so full and convex.

I slip my hands through
this departing air
and I feel like another woman.
Fidgeting the remains of earth.

P s – my poem published on Mad Swirl.