Passion Flowers

The world pulsates through her bare chest as she dances
Ankles tasting the oceans wake

The flowers frilled in her hair
Connect in constellations of woven grass 
and ebony strands
They strum the song of the land

She’s hungry

And abandoned

But the wind tickles her nose
And her mind
The ethos of the tree line
Guards her from the wild jungle behind.

The woman before you is divorced
From the chant of wealth 
And status

The woman before you dances
To the beat of the medicine-man’s drum

The woman of the world
Bears her heart, which was scorned
She bears her heart
In a envelope of passion-flowers

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From the Author

Well, apparently by “inconsistent uploads” I meant “hiatus.” Sorry about that! I’m still going to post my work here as I complete them, but yeah… December is a baaaaad month for me, reader.

Anyways.

This is a poem about a heart I’ve named “Farren.” She’s similar to the characterization I refer to as “The Nomad.”

Where “The Nomad” has always represented myself, “Farren” is my muse. Her name means “the land” or “adventure.” When I think of her in my mind’s eye, she’s always dancing with the wind. I hope that when you read of her, you see her passion, her love, her innocence, and her power.