In rolls a begotten fog
Smelling boggish, of
Crushed sage and old pomegranate
Seeds. The scent roots me here, like
Sleep paralysis dead awake. And,
In my periphery, there lurks
Some otherworldly shadow
All made up of
Skeletal lace; petrified petals greyed and
Sheathing an emaciated
Figure. Only her eyes
Are alive, so quick and angry, and
Trapped too.
I tremble and think, is this his
Pomegranate queen?
Buried beneath the weeds, trapped by
Just those few seeds?
The injustice radiates from her
Withered form, with just a wisp
Of former glory, old beauty.
And then the shadow decays away, leaving
Just a moldy fragrance that
Reminds me of
Rotten roses once
Sublime
And I know I will never
Accept the promise of seeds again
Lest I become
Persephone’s legacy.
Vanessa Maderer was a young reader turned editor, writer, and finally enthusiastic poet who has recently debuted her first chapbook entitled, Cusp of Dusk after a decade of revision. Now, she has an insatiable appetite for new ideas and themes, and can be found most easily through Twitter at @MadererV.
photo by Thought Catalog (via unsplash, with credit to quotecatalog.com)
Crow & Cross Keys 