An arty soul

One rose was full of perfume that She fainted in her own arms

as if perfume had undone the airs of her form

 

She plucked the song from a twig of her perfumed memory

as if it was her sixteenth birthday stirring two decades

 

She hesitated with the thought inducing coffee

as if it was her two decades gone on cloud nine

 

She blew a whistle to dig out the unconscious mind

as if a thousand clouds like herself were hidden beneath the thought

 

She gave up the final chase of a pretty job

as if her hidden thoughts have found the little Buddha

 

She didn’t give up the Buddha then

 

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