Bracken, moss, and dirt buried under the fingernail as scratching, the dyslexia runs hoarse through the forest. So eager to be ethereal, to please the sonnet in the solemn, the medieval beauty at the roadside, calling with garlands to cause the tears and to brush them away, so transparent to be virtuous, to be home, to be midnight together, to be resolute with open arms. Child and mother in both minds; the girl glides with torn white gown, collecting flowers, wishing the roots to be her hair growing up from your grave. Mad, but lovely mad. Mad like the swollen mariners buckling over her cheeks, the heaving shoulders, the duty to mourn with open heart - a quarry of hurt and love crumbling under the seeds of life. Sprouting desire too for you; smouldering under the song, stroking the ivory and rocking with crystal castles fragrant in her throat. You told her not to believe. She didn't, she bred the disease in your mind in her lungs, she coughed it up for you and still bashed her body against the rocks, and her blood was the opiate to herself, this was her religion - her killer whales. Every woman wants to be love; the picture painted not photographed, the sigh to curl around your frame , every woman wants that, to be the vision of love. And whatever yours was once, she followed to the end, with piteous distaste received from crowds and crowds - have you ever met a coward so brave? To bruise her soul, to be beautiful for you and innocent, but torch her mind to let others believe you were so. Her mind! That garden of sexes - earthy intelligence and iconic clouding when you want the siren quiet, hushed.

Buried at sea.

It hits you at the back of your chest - branches snapping as she keeps crawling through. If sentences could shatter window panes, it's time for this dance to recognise her worth. Thousands of violins in empty rooms - here people have become vapours and love it. It is those that hold on to their cloaks of automatic life that cannot seep through.

Just expected more. There is nothing wrong with that. That shouldn't make you cower and be confined.

Rake the earth with your hands, you are capable of great love and triumph because it's there, it's there in your veins, and even if the taste does not settle on you, it is there. It's you.