Little girls are suppose
to gather flowers
And run with them unto
their mothers
Holding sacred fathoms of the
wellspring –
Listen, the chapel’s
golden bells ring
Three and three and three...
times three.
Fate too, notes time’s decree
That numbered seasons
shall not come free
And so begins the slow attrition
Of youth’s steps stolen of
their fruition
And adolescent spires - ravaged forms.
A young maiden sets upon
the storms
So to cross the twisted deforms
Her sweet nature contorted
by pains
Prepubertal limbs twisted
into chains
And yet, the beast could
not have her grace.
While death stole away her
place;
Her flower’s petals keep a
lovely face
Always at the edge of the horizon’s
sunrise
And the end of the day -
across the night skies
When now a little girl
gathers eternity’s hours.
