the strait

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I was Sylvia, you an open furnace;
Seducing me, reducing me;
Flammable passion, spinning me head tales;
Frangipani faith, hibiscus heart;
Dancing on skyward table tops to caress the moon;
Music commands I return, she’s singing: “come back soon”;

Enchanted by petals, the colour of night;
Sovereign sycophant takes fanciful flight;
Wunderkind, high on Miles and Bette Davis eyes smiles;
She reads between the lines;
He bleeds between the lies;
Bo-her-mian joy child;
Navigates her struggle, in blended skin, unmended kin;
Mute the voice they call terror, known as Gia, felt as truth;
Hand of the blessed oppressor;
Allure with promises of gold dust & trust;

Three sleeps deep;
Woke up to burning tears, wild flames of fears;
An escape to nowhere, somehow, somewhere;
Vivid dreams of blood stained trees,
Broken hearts on leaves;
The past has passed, crossed over, far gone;
Walk a mile in my shoes;
Stay a while in my blues;
Eyes deader than disco;
Face soaked in smoke and jazz;
Her religion was clothed in sack cloth;
Ancient sphinx;
Shrouded , disguised as salvation.

Mistreated school kid, sneered at, laughed at, now he’s a lost cool kid;
Teased, squeezed, mocked by mean girls;
Those ‘I-hate-myself-so-I’m-always-in between’ girls;
She holds nobody hostage;
Terrorists don’t negotiate with her;
All doors revolving, all roads lead to evolving;
They warn her against the devils by day;
But become them when night falls;
Life force fed her restraint and composure and reckless abandon;
Grateful eternally, for human intuition.

mj