The youngest daughter of misery
gazes her eyes back at me,
fixated on what love created,
this thing of waning beauty.
This thing that fear once hated,
during her prelude to provocative pursuits,
those early times of blanketed soothe
when even invisible friends were sane.
When insecurity hadn’t earned a name.
When telephone could be a game.
When crowded compartments held opportunity,
not just what was soon to be another cage.
Another age.
Another wrinkle making crinkles into this face that wisdom dare not trace,
this monument carved in once sacred stone.
Monuments only ever stand alone.
But then there’s this dare;
with a prayer, is it possible to own once more
what the crowds implore to be perfection?
To note nothing in inspection?
To unburden the falsely justified,
those words which silence cried and cried in this one gaze.
To replace it with praise.
When the peeling bark of a birch tree
holds endless poetic beauty,
why can’t the youngest daughter of misery.
This person I alone call me?
The Youngest Daughter of Misery
(Jan 27 #poem from #prompts)
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