Winged Lining

She lived POETRY
for a few months
the way her long hair
drew up in curves,
and her lips once full of prose
that failed to drip like honey

you know how the story goes
those mirrored days
that reflect
but silence pages

She lived those moments
in huddled thought
how he held her hand
and what the sky tasted like
in leaves
in cabs
in buildings

and how a heart sleeps anyway
no matter how it aches
for time
or dreams

creativity doesn't linger
for distance (self or soul)
or ponder how
flesh can pause
in the blink of shining eyes
that seem to dull

She BECOMES Poetry

until, the words return
like winged birds
like flight
that fleeting light
upon the jagged glass
of calling
her name

and jointed light,
two knuckle bones
return