Bounded self-muse.

Thought in sepia,

spoken ever softly.
A petite soul

slowly straying

from its self.

Crafted delicately

of unbroken worries,

and mercurial desires.

What an endlessly

fragile thing you are.

Origami hearted

femininity, ornately

folded in letters.

Sealing each

epistolary piece

with a promise.

Your misty, mourning

eyes are not in vain.

Weathered woman

storming on pages,

a tempest of text.

A constant downpour

of disguising verses,

of masking metaphors.

You're a make-shift poet,

living ever un-eased.

In calligraphic skin,

yearning to be worded,

faintly aching in prose.

A lunatic of a lover

romancing an ego,

trying to fall for self.

A hushed panic

playing on lips,

Flitting to and fro.

You are nothing

but an unturned smile.

Bemused wanderer,

searching for a

revelation in flesh.

Searching for a reason

in familiar strangers,

in charming temptation.

Lost and aching to be

found, begging to be

to be heard, to be whole.

You are merely a straying soul,

longing to return to itself.