The Eclipses

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°•~•°

Some flowers, fragrant whispers in the breeze,

Some tears, glistening like morning dew,

Some scars and stardust woven with ease,

Warm flesh and bones and a heart of stone,

Mostly poetic, always dramatic,

Like a queen without a tiara or throne,

The recipe of a human antique.

Her tan shining in moonlight's embrace,

And a smile that never fades away,

Drifting between Kafka’s existential dread

And Macbeth’s ambition where dreams decay,

Her soul roams lost behind a million facades,

Within each mask, there's a story she'd never say.



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