She writes of love and tortured souls
until her fingertips run red,
within her feeble sickle scrolls
her un-cried tears are all but lead.
Until her fingertips run red
and eyes burn from the scathing words
within those tortured sickle scrolls,
no more than crumbs fed to the birds.
Her eyes burn from the scathing words
her works unfinished, full of holes
disjointed harmony in thirds
cacophony of no control.
Her works unfinished full of holes
tortured burning sickled scrolls,
cacophony of no control
she writes of love and tortured souls.
Edited version of the Pantoum for Gay Raiser Cannon’s form for all discussion on D’verse tonight.