A young girl
easily led.
Not to her bed,
yet she dances upon
the thoughts of paternal lead.
It's a mother who leads
tells her what she needs...
as the daughter dances and dances
worlds of veils and mystical trances.
'His head,'
'His head,'
she never said.
She never said.
her words lost
drowned
by the motherly dread.
She wakes
lies in her bed.
She faces the space.
His head.
His head.
About Me
- prettyintelligentprincess
- Turrets and Spires, Near the sea., United Kingdom
- An imperfect mother. An unfaithful wife. A career professional. Waiting to feel the stone thrown at her by the one without sin.
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