Allow people to admire you for who you truly are, they say
and rain trickle down the grooves of your finger tip
let the mettlesome horse leave the court stables in February.
count your toxic days from incurable nights.
I say i’m not proud of the woman
my mother used to be
I hope the clogs she wore
make a different sound than the one I wear.
A black rose withers on your window pane
leaving snowy ashes on winter’s stairs
the language of my palms
is whitewashed to tell a different story from yours
When you least expect it
Light flickers haphazadly in still abyss of darkness
You are on a train crashing into a river of eclectic changes
Deep waters stifle you until something different wipes your slate