Spoiler
I wondered if my imagination could hold a visitor.
My corner is dark, dreary,
Foreign to young girl- that visitor,
She couldn't understand this,
Go away:
Magenta says deep sands,
Hands lullaby a docile rhythm,
With jounced, jarred planks,
She lands, warmly welcomed to my prism
What a prism, from long ago,
I'll be tending tides in fractured hours,
Clamping her bygone throes- till the darkness when Day sours
Darkness, blue not black, sits along her shoulders,
And she's wary as it tails her- clean,
When, but then, she's fairer than the pearls
Standing, quivering, happening to the bone,
Where it hones its blue and artificial grip,
Groping for that wearisome soul,
Groping for that crying tone
And so she ventures on,
Her body follows suit, and then the trees give way to paths,
Forked for my fortune's fortitude
My last resort before she reaches my solace:
"See road's fork?" I say,
"Continue not forward, but back.
Don't, for my sake, stay!
My paths bore not your vile track."
She holds herself, distraught but sane,
A wisp of hair told my corner's sway,
Because she moved to deign my pay,
"Come again, dearest, come again."
