She Bleeds Love, War And Tempered Passions
This world cannot conquer her
She was born the youngest of three girls
A tumultuous start was had by all three,
Shuffled from pillar to post at any given time
Safety and security was no guarantee.
***
She grew up far too quickly, given no choice
Although she only ever showed a brave face,
A fake smile, a loud laugh, you’d never know
But at night the smile gone, the tears replace.
***
She spent her childhood playing in mud
Climbing trees, giggling in glee as she fell,
If you’d been watching you’d have believed
Her world was full of magic and spells.
***
She never expected all that much of anyone
In fact, she is still the same to this very day,
She amused herself, living in her own world
As she imagined she had a friend to play.
***
Life may have been tough but still she loved
Dreaming of the star in which she was born,
Endeavouring to return at some future date
As she meandered through her life’s storm.
***
I watch her as I catch those timely glimpses
As her world at large, heats up and swelters,
We struggle to breathe, forlorn and hot
While she dances to a tune that’s totally hers.
***
I watch every spin and swoop as she sways
Her eyes are closed, wearing a peaceful smile,
She already seems to be back in her world
Her escape, glory so great she stays awhile.
***
I ask how she excels while we all sit and suffer
Especially while in this forsaken boiling heat,
She lets out a sweet tinkle of musical laughter
Swinging and moving to her own personal beat.
***
As she passes I hear her whisper in answer
“I am made up of numerous sleeping dragons,
We have conquered this mundane world
Quelled our fears and slain our assassins.”
***
“This world cannot beat or ever conquer us
It has tried in so many tortuous fashions,
Only to discover that we are not as we seem
We bleed love, war and tempered passions.”
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Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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