Reading is an art of the mindful, she had put. It was about words this time, not about the fruit.
She darted on the words that she knew, lived them to silences,
she had drawn lines that were few;
she had made meanings out of circles, silently, like late night dew.
She sang with the bitter bees loud. Like some poison ivy.
Those were her times of sail. Of swimming out and proud. Over the crowd, hovering atop, above the cloud.
It wasn't really as dark as you could cite. Quite colorful in fact. She really had thought about a lily white.
Absorbed them.
She had no letters, she had so much to hide. Her eyes were round. She used the touchstone inside.
Two leaves yellowed soon.
They had come back with shorter steps. Drank so much and ate so less. Stalks and flowers brew dreams and colours that melted drifting skin and tortured steps; they twirled through swarmy arcades of brokenness.
A sunflower faded by night.
They left her at day break. Taught the rides, pushed her to count times late. Made her read the lines six times before all words found letters and all tokens remained. They had opened the gate.
She was told to sing operas in the air and hum back to herself in spite. She knew the flaw. She knew it then. She knew it all while she saw.
Some white powder burnt in a room that day.
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