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she sings of Africa—
my wild one,
firehaired and fearless.

she dances the borderland
between nighttime and day

collects fallen stars and broken hearts
into scrapbooks bound
by faded photographs.

she built the fire in the sacred forest
decorated its ancient floor with diamond dust;

the blue door leads
into the house of lanterns
where skeletons play
with invisible keys
and ravens scrawl epithets
into cemetery mist
with jagged beaks

while she
pirouettes, wrapped
in mystery
my delicate,
fierce,
multifoliate rose
deeper than the ocean
that birthed her;

i’ve gazed into her eyes for four lifetimes
but still can’t describe what color they are.

(yes, my wild one, you will be
the death of me, but

who cares?)

Written by

I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.

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