prisms and prisons

in a distant corner beyond the keyhole lights,
a yellow rose lies fermented
amidst the quiet rustling of her doubts.

she is a glass silhouette that languishes,
her chromatic complexion reduced to mere raindrops
without the breathless glance of dawnlight.

here in this hollowed, moon-less space,
she learns to smother love, that worldly sin.
how, like a child, its blue-faced death haunts her for days.
how its pale, golden petals return like weeds
sprouting from the cracked walls, persistent.

is the door locked to keep them out, or to hold her in?
whatever she paints it, as prison or refuge,
she knows it is not home.

as incandescence softly fades within her irises,
rainbows spill beyond the threshold, into the world:

and she wishes she could follow.


a/n: peel away the painted reflection and the metaphor becomes a mirror for who i really am.