She is provocative

at times she is insolent.

Her concept of red

is nowhere near

roses.

Her house is

the hollow of bones

its burning walls stretched

beyond margins.

She has suffered despair

braved the triteness

of platitudes.

She is in search

of kindling

waiting to ignite.

 

The Strangers gather on the green choking on smoke and the scent of seared flesh. The sun is climbing down to meet the flames. As she smolders he dampens her gown.  Just before the wind whips up she is in Elysian fields.

 

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