She Was An Orphan Of The Stars
A sorceress of torture
She would frequently resonate with the moon’s ebb and flow
In tune with the world as if she was made of the moon’s glow,
She wasn’t, but she was often intoxicated by the moon’s light
Convinced she was part moon dust, a lover of the bright night.
***
She would often ramble on that she was an orphan of the stars
She didn’t belong here on earth, instead she orbits from afar,
You’ll hear her tell that she can feel heaven living within her
As she wandered through the Milky Way, a scenery she prefers.
***
Would you listen to her tales, as she sips on her favourite drink
A summer mixture of darkness, moonlight and shooting stars,
Or a winter mixture of snow, wild winds, tornadoes and ice
As she forlornly turns her gaze back to the home she sacrificed.
***
She found the need to abandon her demons, as they used her
Feeding from her weakness, demanding her strength transfer,
She was far more than her weakness, her pain, her heartache
Abandoning their demands and the horrors they wish to partake.
***
She is better without her demons, born to be as she’s been bred
A queen of pain and agony, her crown sits lopsided on her head,
She is a sorceress of torture, bred to become a woman of war
Beware of her love, her embrace can be deadly, a devil’s spore.
***
She looks ravishing in her uniform, her medals shining on her chest
Made up entirely of her scars worn with pride, alight on her breast,
Her battles are hard won, stampedes of her sworn enemies ahead
She is a catastrophic storm of fear, heartlessness and icy dread.
***
She holds tight to her fire breathing dragon, at one with her beast
The blood drenched battleground as she allows her dragon to feast,
She knows she can coexist with her pet fire breather, she claimed
A woman who refuses to allow the world to extinguish her flames.
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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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