The world is broken, and I am a shell, forging through the shards, legs through holes, with opening, stepping over brittle bones, a walking egg
a moving embryo, forgotten in harsh land.
The world is broken, and I am a shield, stampeded through the armies, in warrior’s wrist, with leathered-timber, clashing against talismans, a symbol
a shining glory, protected in fierce combat.
The world is broken, and I am a youth, hunched in the corner, sockets of tears, with memories, slashing tender flesh, an innocent
a weeping dove, folded in lost man.
The world is broken, and I am a woman, launched on platform, voice of need, with determination, professing victory, a leader
a gentle dweller, enveloped in light.
The world is broken, and I am a watcher, pierced by dwellers, swords of greed, with blindfolds, screaming jesters, a danger
a sworn enemy, tarred in horror.
The world is broken, and I am a lover, diving in waves, rivers of lust, with longing, merging ecstasy, kissing bride
a charmed doll, swept in morrow.
The world is broken, and I am a passenger, hitching a ride, clinger of hope, with caution, whispering warnings, a knowing
a sweet someone, caped in caution.
The world is broken, and I am a seamstress, sewing a tale, tailor of cause, with rhythm, creating patches, a covering
a downy blanket, spread in truth.
The world is broken, and I am a bard, bleeding an immortal, seer of agony, with temperance, trembling syllables, a note
a humble beckoning, scribed in grace.
Samantha Craft, 6.9.19
Belly of a Star 