Sylvia
She protruded from a background well-versed in mythology
Riddled in metaphors
Steeped in false parameters
Yet gifted in iambic pentametre
She coughed a bloodied bee onto her lap
and let the sparks fly.
She married a beekeeper in two syllables
And bit her tongue
Whilst the lines absolved her dichotomy of life
She tripped over her song's rhyme
She whistled a white-hole onto the page
And dropped herself inside.
Her jar will always be half-empty, with complete thoughts.
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