The Blooming
Melted
Her heart with no cold,
On ice sculpture,
Without snow by her feet
Her hands, they were torn,
Tattered and stitched, tattered and stitched
How long could she go with scorching heat in her bones?
Even the questions she asked
They swayed and swirled
Like puppets in the wind
Clasping the strings
Wrapped around the puppeteer’s rings
Will her mind ever find its own way?
Lost was she
Then came an angel with wings
Ravishing, unwavering in the teal sky
Gave not a reply
But spread in to the night
With her wings, the light
To a place nearby
Stepped into the grass,
And didn’t’ look back
She was free
She was free at last
Copyright © Rushdha Thanikatt | Year Posted 2020
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