Dark mahogany tables decorated in spilt wine
Lush maroon carpet, blackened and burnt from cigarette buds
Whiskey and coffee fill her chipped mug
Candles and incense are her shrine

Her frail, boney fingers run through her raven hair
Her tattered silk slip hugs tightly to her thighs
And dark moon shaped circles envelope her eyes
Her skin hangs skimpishly on her cheeks, so fair

Tears sheepishly crawl down her horrid face
As she scratches over the poems she carved on her wrist
Her little hands are clenched into painful fists
A fire violently dances to the sound of her heart’s pace

She is a poet.

 
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