She is that, within herself and behind her tears. She holds the moon for her solace, with the sun for her shame. A life so wrenched, with idle strands before her forehead. She beads the tension to the surface of porcelain skin. A woman, who so wants to be held, without slipping free.
A little bit of truest sunlight to hold her steady upon the earth’s soil, like to be grown as the adorable flower, will keep her calm. Like to be held firm in one harboring glow, for she does not need all the blankets of the world to be kept warm. She wants, in this, something that should not be loose. Merging in it, she’d find the happiness to comprehend no one else had.
Her tears are her sourness to drink, leaking from a soul in dirty bandages. Love can be her shelter, though it is nowhere to be found. Her tears mar her face, keep it unkempt when she is not before Joel. Weathered in her own storm, she drowns in her own rivers.
Her beauty is a sad reflection, losing moments in precious circles. Roundabouts, in moments kept in frequent passion, upon lakes already dried.
She is what Joel knows to leave from her mouth. Sighs of passion.
Blood is forced down her mouth, in terms of pure understanding of value. Blood, to be like kept secrets, to be like what Lisa is, for the sake of that veil, somehow upon Joel’s countenance. She wants it torn down, like a curtain to see the sunlight crashing through.
To her beauty, much wilting in the shade she carries atop her shoulders.
Brown strands are like burned bark. Eyes that are bold with falsehood, are always streaming rivers melting from the ice on her heart. They are green, those eyes, though they’ve received the taint of winter.
Autumn was skipped. There was no fall. Only the bleakness of a frozen remembrance to childhood, can be there for Lisa’s recollection.
A childhood to bliss, in safest skies, where no thunder rumbled the Earth, as no tears were the stains for pillows.