Tempest,
Turned Bastion.
Coasts of our youth,
Reflected in another artist’s eyes.
Not even my own,
Sans reading it.
Knowing which or whom,
Each thread existed for.
Me?
Ugly.
Born like this.
Here,
Would be spoken of as a wild woman,
Snatching up children –
In basket upon my back –
To feast upon later.
“we see The water swell before a boist’rous storm.”
