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Personal Note:
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Poem
She's a rhapsodic tale of might
beyond falu dynamics sailing
through heartbreak's stormy
strikes and Lupus fight. 
In an exchange of blows with 
darkness, she steams in granite, 
kindness gleams in a tempo of battles.

A legend true, her arms zaffre. 
I watch her cool her scars in a
spaniel of ashes. Fierce in 
boldness, her story a delight 
of arch angels aligned in a 
phoenix crawling deep as the skies. 

She dances in an oasis of lies
clinging to an anchor that aids
her fall. The burning tints in her allure stagnate the wind's sway. 
How can one be so valuable
yet disposable? She thinks. 

I see her dreams spread like
thighs on sheets in a wildfire
of chocolate cosmos. 
Her sadness springs as a 
parcel of land in a mindless 
estate of shame.

Her love without barriers 
flows like nature's most
accessible asset. 
What's not to love? 
Even in her disgruntled cave,
she goads the sunset to 
gloat in a jungle of 
enchanting Belladonna. 

The constant search for blinded rays breaks her into thorns of shredded silence. Her soul in torment of a struggle to breathe, her mind and her, a clash of pigmented water and oil. She is a crash where humans stroll as spectators.

I bleed in her toil for validation,
racing the edges of the universe
In a loud echo of wails, in search for perfection, she soaks in her worth.

Her voice rings in heavenly 
camouflage and a lullaby of dahlias, 
so distinct you could feel the rareness,
an exotic love on. She paints the clouds 
with selfish love, it rhymes in truth and
bleeds in hues.

Crying with the wolves to the same 
old love her smile quivers like ice cream.
She storms in a pillar of polar bears plotting in white and black. Her plight, I want you to know, so you can drown with her, round and round in the den of bad liars. 

Like rare magic, she's good for you. 
Her eyes, a souvenir of vulnerability
in a Star dance. Her lyrics run like
body heat. I want to soothe her 
sobers in undercover of her past life, reviving her so her feet can dance again.  

Naturally made wonder that flows back to you. She is humble, a name that sings in history hall. 

Lost in concealed attention of sorrowful foxes. Red veins amidst those bright eyes. 
Alone in thousands of
chained expectations. No butter can
set the excruciating thoughts of having
just 30 years to live. 
Striving every day awaiting and counting 
the time, when she can finally sleep 
with her angels alike.
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