She slices
her silver blade
through the
Valley of Tongue
sets course
a new river
where waters run
acidic blue
burning old bridges
lighting fire
to stagnant skies
no birds sing
lullabies here -
she washes
her wound
with the Devil’s
tears
raises a chin
in defiant glory
her testament
her story
too stunning
to be considered
anything less than
extraordinary.












Thank you. Love, Lane











meg





63 old applause
