Perhaps she was just the broken shards of self
dispersed on summer winds in naked abandonment
the shattered remains of soul
devoured by egos for the indulgent.
Perhaps she was petals, silk and smooth
fragrant, promiscuous the embodiment of lust,
a vivid rainbow of desire, teasing,
tantalising her prey with every thrust.
Or perhaps she was the breeze,
the rays of morning light
perhaps she was so delicate
she became lost within the night.
Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words
