feel the dead weight of a shadow approach...

she was the oriental china
that told of ancestors past,
strong as the wind
against her delicate lace hat, dainty,
desiring to create more
than cubicle papers that get crammed away
and forgotten in file cabinets

she was the inspiration
that provides a continuous push
as vital as the heart
who continually pushes my blood

she is days long forgotten,
yet instilled in my cranium
like the first step,
the first smile,
the first word uttered from lips, delicate,
like the porcelain china
with roses the color of her lips
which whispered the only words
that seem to matter,
like the porcelain china
as white as a picket fence,
as fragile as death,
as life, she was.


i do believe i have acquired some ainsley burrows inspiration...