Prose 0.4: Is Maimed
There’s something futile in a tender touch
When the tempest sculpts waves of cunning mistrust.
But like the strikes of others,
Decorates her tender frame that moved
Like the see.
This is where she can choose to cascade
And let hurt pervade
Like those tempestuous waves.
But this woman meanders gently
Through the valley of heedless want,
Into warm streams.
Her next lover.