trim lark
I tinged my poetry mostly in white.
If it wasn't white, then it was green.
White was the color; it was the blueprint.
Dreams of lilies, dreams of "White Wishing Wells."
Nature's essence was only a complement.
It gave me freedom on a plain canvas.
The snowy clouds admire my pearls —
Zeus wasn't fond of it. The moonlight —
It's the cousin; the birch trees would envy.
Polishing my words like porcelain tiles.
The moon's iris was mesmerized —
By its marvelous décor. "Ghost" was the
Best among them; capturing a stark zone with
An apparition. A pale mattress where I once lay.
"Blank" is my therapist; it elevated my poetry
Astoundingly. "The White Birds Glowing"
In the forest: still an unsolved mystery.
Such lucent dreams and indelible memories.
Now, my verses are stunning like moonstones
And my words are still white as doves — but my
"Curse Of Words" still remains. I am Mary —
Pouring the Alabaster oil over them.
A poet's canvas, glazed in white hues.
covert harness
plain plank
sour remnant
meager vine
arctic canyon
ancient whale
carmine holly
uncut fiber