Friday, January 31, 2014


©Mimi Wolske, January 2014
All Rights Reserved

Perched high in her suicide tree,
Never kept in a gilded cage
As many would report later,
She felt like she'd been clawing glass.

Ragged tears floated down silken,
Desiccated threads of chestnut,
For it was a man who clipped her
gossamer dreams with dying love.

She held gypsy-red window tiebacks,
Looped at her nape and spider rolled,
That were the length of his torso
Lying in the ground beneath her.

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