Mrs Jackson
Light as a feather
Provoked by wind
Chasing bad weather
Again and again
Many things change
Transform and bloom
But she stays the same
A chosen doom
If looks could kill
Nothing would breathe
The tree on the hill's
Leafs would leave
Her skin crawls
At a loving touch
She's stacking walls
With words and such
Her only true love
Hides in her closet
A personal pub
And lips to lock it
|