by Trina Layne |
Categories:
fate, fear, people, perspective,
Madeline lay in deep grass, reckoning
chances, glowing-gloaming with each tacit
confirmation of posies' beckoning
her advancement on love to run riot
or abridging chapters to deny it.
As pricked as a hunter's dog fed a scent,
tracking romances through wine sediment,
baited by horoscopes, jailed by black cats.
leaning ladders, she scampers in torment.
petrified of falling skies--dons steel hats