The Breaker of Lofty Bones
She reigns over the downtrodden
She raced the clock of eternity,
Smothering it in rainbows and angel kisses,
Determination the belt she wears with pride,
Scooting through the ending in narrow misses.
***
She highlights the brightest stars in the darkened sky,
Honouring them with the dreams of newly born foals,
Twinkling on the outcast,
Like embers of the famous long burning coals.
***
Sorrow is squashed by the excitement,
Turned inwards as the haze deeply furrows the trees,
Wilderness soars from the branches,
Catching the southerly scented breeze.
***
Tomorrow dawns the blackened horizon,
Tiny feet marching to the beat of a different drum,
Eternity hasn’t given up on her,
Knowing it’s in her future to finally succumb.
***
She yawns at the boringness of it all,
Knowing she’ll skip to the music of her choice,
Melodic notes rain upon her parade in golden glitter,
As she finds the value in her soaring voice.
***
Love has shattered her blistering heart,
In a way that forgoes the possibilities once in store,
Cracks of wired bloody light peers from within,
Never to heal as it once was before.
***
Tears water her cheeks in a river of pain,
Her strength forgone for this short expanse of time,
She’ll wander the city of the lost day upon day,
Until out of the ditch of loneliness she’ll decide to climb.
***
When asked where she stores the strength that’s forever rumoured,
She responds in cryptic tones,
“I am the maiden of the moon, the waning of the stars,
The warring of daybreak, the breaker of lofty bones.”
***
With this chant hidden within her fierce attitude,
She reigns over the downtrodden, the heinous,
Wielding her whip across their spines,
Watching as they run from her into the deathly greyness.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Originally published 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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