She was light, you know,
the way snow is bright even at night.
And those soft eyes of hers,
filled with the language of moons.
She was a treasure,
and she’s buried under the hellebore.
My buried treasure.
These poems/prose are draft versions, written in participation of Miz Quickly’s prompts, November poem-a-day challenge. The aim: to produce a chapbook for submission. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Images are ©Misky, and created using AI-Midjourney.
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