POWER IN THE TONGUE
A petite yet sinewy muscle, exuding charisma,
A citadel of expression, tenacious in awe.
Its tentacles sting with a vindictive jest,
While cavernous blooms cradle the nectar’s quest.
Cobblestoned emotions jade my mental slate,
As chronicles surface, vivid and up to date.
A fragile form, each breath a whispered plea,
Cracked like ice beneath a trembling sea.
Nervous breakdowns drown me by the shore;
Patronizing gazes weigh heavily on my core.
A colossal trial looms, plunging me into chiaroscuro gloom,
Echoing the spectral whispers of Annabelle's forsaken room.
Whiffs of solace levitate from amma's lap,
A delicate darling, like rose dew on morning's nap.
Yet, from heaven's soft veil, a Messiah descends,
Bestowing wisdom, like a balm that mends.
A cooing whisper: “Confidence is the finest accessory one can wear,”
Infusing my fragile spirit, quelling mayhem with flair.
A garment forged by time, self, and panache,
Glinting like sapphires in the esoteric cache.
For fear ravages the dungeon’s shadowed depths,
Shattering armor, leaving it fractured, bereft.
Magnetic words defy gravity’s law—
A candle in the rain, my flame untouched, in thaw.
Copyright © Jeta Buch | Year Posted 2024
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