(pic from boredart.com)
The feat of the beast,
the rising knots of hair.
The source that betrayed her,
when everyone was there.
The increasing thoughts of yonder,
in the palms of once strangers.
The plunge of relief,
announced the wakening of the feast.
The tappings of quiet change,
like the itching of rife mange.
Birthed were the thoughts,
they drew a new her one self-taught.
The humble exploration of words and silent leaps to chest of lexicon,
ended something similar to fact comforting so vulnerably shone.
Met by admiration and spurned twists of visual ponder,
she became increasingly aware of the onslaught that was mental dangers.
A brief moment of reflection,
paired with later critique and inspection.
Finally softened and made meagre,
went the last of her hesitation.
As ruthless tools charged the paper,
fresh and void of stale contemplation.
The language of her heart.
Copyright Teherah Wheeler (©) 2017