Floating


 

Her world is a private
dream
a myriad complex thing
juxtaposed within
pains that run deep
like a slice with
a wicked knife
into the fruit
of a well worn life
that drips it juices
onto the floor
where others tread
its sticky mess.

Yet she floats.
Always she floats,
above and apart
she floats.
Wrapped in a delightful
viscous vicious
violent delicate
sustaining way.

She floats.
And I,  can simply only
wonder when, she will
ask me to join her.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

2 thoughts on “Floating”

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