In her long years of exile, she was like a poet's imagined forest, full/quite/overwhelmed in moonlight. Her longings echoed in her songs and ripened passion and madness in the forest darkness.

When Love invaded and took her away.

Now an average lover, living amidst limits, everyday she searches the insides of her body for a wild-fire.
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little boxes said…
story of our lives.
sigh
May 9, 2011 at 11:51 PM
bullshithappiness said…
This is great. All of my best songs were written in exile. There is a return from love’s arms, where that other thing that will always call you back to it, waits, arms folded across its chest, smirking not because love hide you from knowing love could not hide you, nor because he sees you drunk and dreaming, but because unlike love, he knows you.
September 20, 2011 at 7:20 AM
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