Young Writers Society

Asleep on a wood park bench,
she lay under the polished dime moon,
under the swaying tempo of pale hands 
pulling on the hems of her lace dress.
The poor girl was left bare and shuddering,
her milky feathers plucked and dead.

Wrenching her from her hometown and all she knew,
into the unhinged jaws of the wood, down its belly,
to the beat of its restless thump thump heart,
delivered by her father's insistent grip.

She's a young beauty, sailing
across the canal of stars now,
remarks the Sunday papers.

Her eyelashes blend dark ink into
pretty night skies; running down her
paper arms she's your moon and stars,
and all the more, this I fear.
Up above a mortal's arms-length,
my fingertips strain to tug her by the shoes,
back down from a lonely ole rest,
she would never wake from again.

And the clouds blow her back down,
in content little gusts,
to the dream in which I prayed
she would wave a good-hello,
and a hack a hoarse good-bye.
She drifts like a dandelion seed,
amiss and knocking, she stumbles.

On welcome mats she pleads and crawls,
but never mine.
Turning my back on a honey glazed sun,
until the backdrop of periwinkle skies
glosses over all my terrible troubles,
and silhouettes the girl who was never there,
no longer a reminder of her blonde hair.

But this I have known,
of the angels and corpses above,
who'd gladly cradle a shallow girl over salt and rivers,
to the ferryman who lent a kind hand; but kind was not
kind to me.
He seemed generous, even when he looked back
on her water logged corpse.

I will remember that day I saw her in the park,
healthy and ripe, a smile on her sleepy face.
Her name dwindling on my tongue, horrified
I'd forgotten; words stolen by biting winds.

So I bury my longings and crimes by a kiss,
sealed by the dead girl's blue lips.