Why do these days on lonely streets I cast
a clouded jewel on dolls devoid of face?
I didn't know the synapses that bask
Inflict, at times, a mask of borrowed grace.
In dusty books are pinned my butterflies
A catalogue of skewered strangled screams.
Why do they interrupt and make me cry
Reminding me of valleys ever green?
A femme fatale just dances where she will
On stages where the dandelions grow.
On bended bloodied knee I yank until
Corruption melts away like winter’s snow:
A ghost can only interrupt your days
If they are given space and time to stay.
The alliterative lines in this, the unique phrasing, and the nostalgia of that lost love are phenomenal. The last two lines are some of the best, and kind of solidified the idea of being part of a process, growing, losing, then growing again. Congrats on the win!