Subdue the mood,
And white roses on her grave.
Her life - practically liven like chords,
Bellows an audience that wouldn't be left unheard.
She wishes that she was the one left standing,
But her words and vociferous stature only stands to reminisce with us.
Sometimes,
The frigid breeze still nips away at my shoulders;
Nakedness partaken in thee and we still have nothing left grabbing.
Only her soul combines with our minds;
There goes her music rewinding time.
Subdue the mood and white roses on her gave,
In hopes of prayer,
We will eventually see her again.
YOU ARE READING
La Coiffure
PoetryAllons-y! Down a saccharine trail; why? I may ask what it will bring. Does the past have a history; Where's the visionary input? On our clothes, in our hair. We as women seem to forget the boon that set us forward- our glamorous minds never cease...
