adieu
wearing a deathlace
in the bony garden
the pretty women as statues
when I’ve known none of them
eyes, not mine, stare back
if I have failed, let me go
through dooms of silence
in suffering of the first born,
the last born, upon the orange groves
and syrup of my old home.
© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Pseudopsychosis. 
WOw. Spectacular. Breathtaking.
in suffering of the first born,
the last born, upon the orange groves
and syrup of my old home.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you so much, G! ❤ ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
My pleasure 🌹🌹🌹
LikeLiked by 1 person
WOW *
LikeLiked by 2 people
Transfixing imagery, Lucy, and filled with a (rich) resignation.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I have a question, and I do not mean to pry. Nor do I need an explanation. But your poetry is often painful and dark — and beautiful. Is everything alright in your life? Sending you light and faeries just in case.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Oh, if I had a penny… 😁
Sorry, it’s honestly funny since I get these questions here and there. My life is fine, thank you for asking! I’m kind of like a horror writer, I guess, with poetry. I hope all is well with you.
LikeLike
Well, you do it quite well! I need to put a toe or foot in the dark pool too. Take a stab at writing something dark. You inspire me!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aww, I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much! ❤ ❤ You’re an inspiration yourself.
LikeLike
Hauntingly beautiful, Lucy
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you so much, Maria!
LikeLiked by 1 person