Mine Is—
Me
I just want to lay lie
to the world.
A beautiful world reaching nothing,
Roses in my hand and bare skin to air.
Don't let the impressionist touch me,
too strong will the curves be to surrender.
Feet don't forget where they've been,
but I do,
and my mind wanders free of all the strife
when I lay lie
to the world.
Winds can't won't
creep up if fans lay somber beside
me.
Then,
with wind no longer the problem,
who am I?
Am I not the water splashing to the surface?
Are legs not the pillars that hold me up,
strong?
Is blood not the sash that stains my waist,
or was it?
Faces don't forget where I'm from,
but I do.
