Placid Peaks

Heat flamed from a crimson coil
and stagnating water evolved
into steam.
the tomb that held it captive
burnt to a charcoal black
but the steam escaped.
much like the girl who ran
not to a place, but from
the darkness that entombed her
instead of seeking a safe sanctuary
she moved to uncover an ocean
that would gift her a palpable salt
and burn old tastes from her tongue
but her appetite – infinitely insatiable –
then discovered other orifices
in need of packing
of synthetic love
because anything real would have destroyed her.
except the placid peaks of mountains – East Coast
lovers of the space far above
solid ground.
she let waves of folk songs
                                             and stretches of tree-lined highways
                                                                                                                   sooth her whimsy
until a new fear
of clustered memories
birthing a snarling beast
haunted the trail she walked
                       so the girl ran deep
                       through the mud of an unbeaten path
                       and only stopped to sprawl in the healing light
                       of a half moon run
                                                                                     it was here that she heard a familiar voice hiss
                                                                                     “come home little lamb”
And to that she could only reply
“you have no idea what you have done to my soul”

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Glorified milk steamer by day, writer by night.

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