Anyone could see
She was pretty
Her hair fell
In near-perfect spirals
She liked to wear flowers
In those curls
The ivory of her skin
Suggested all the frailty
Of lace
But no one told you
She was fierce
Sometimes you could see it
In the wolfish grin
That lingered upon her lips
And sometimes
Something
Feral
Savage
Animal
Appeared briefly
In her eyes
She was mischievous
And volatile
Unpredictable
Combustible
One moment passion
The next, rage
She was
All the fire
And thunder
Of guns
And all the passion
And intensity
Of a rock concert
Born under Mars
The god of war, himself
Placed fierceness
In her veins
Fire in her hair
And the steel of blades
In her eyes
So he'd recognise
His own child
When she returned to him
About the Creator
A. R. Ambrosi
I like to write, if that makes me a writer, then rock on!
I started writing as a child because I ran out of stuff to read. So, I only write stuff that I like. If you like it too, awesome! Enjoy! ^_^
Keep reading
More stories from A. R. Ambrosi and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.