To the guts of a tender soul,

 

A girl of sixteen,
born from the roots
of a Leyland Cypress,
fastened to the sandy coasts
and rocky mounts
of the twinned Carolinas.
Though yielded by the serene devotion
of flowering dogwoods
and bathing cardinals,
her passions are captivated
by the allure of distant lands;

 

Oh!

How the quickness of youth strikes the smooth heart,  
Suddenly raging fire throughout the sanctuary of her clenched stomach,
creeping steadily into her throat

as the eloquent sickness

of vanity.

Yet,

In spite of fate’s impending call,

ever attempting to diverge
from the acidity of sentiment,

she withdraws from the guard

of a sheltered being,

casting her heart swiftly upon the dagger of chance;

 

These ephemeral times,

spent by the hilarity and diversion

of a mortal kind,

were soon to be quenched

by the clock,

leaving her sanctuary cold.

From the grave

she glances,

ever wishing to be taken

by the quickness of youth
once again.

 

 

Kaitlyn Johnson