Collection: Lasya

She glides along the waxy floor,
Mind at peace and heart at war.
The witching hour sounds nearby,
With impaired grace, her body sighs.

In the quiet, she spinslike the sun,
Of violent energy and a star so bright.
Shrouded in darkness she quivers,
As a glow meets her riveting eyes.

A lone little flame-abusing the wax,
Trickles down onto the mahogany,
Tears on her cheek mirrors the sight.
Hours and minutes last an eternity.

She keeps swaying on calloused tips,
Tresses like a ravens broken wing,
Drowns her saddened breathing.
Her mind still denies and she keeps on dancing.

 

Flita Fernandes