bent goddess, howling at the moon
I wish my lungs
were inflated to greet your breath. It seems a rounder world,
a kinder womb.
Caress now scenting the world with tiny
sparks of breezy evenings glazed
from twirling afternoons.
Twisted to address my declawed character
to morph, drunk from you.
Defeated myself with emotion
(or perhaps I may just have bloomed). A muse,
inked neon sign of allure- pure
inspiration to forget the wretched latch within
You said that beauty can be difficult to write about,
so write with its disorder.