She (On The 22 Of June) Poem by Daniel Safta

Each year
On the twenty-two of June
She sends her tears to the moon
And smiles at the lonely cross
In remembrance of "us".

In her arms
Two poppies make no difference
Of the candles yellow bright
That burns in ignorance.
-To reach my hand and touch I might.

Melted flesh
Rising her form into a plant.
She sees her carnivore-man
And bites his lips into their love.
With passion that boiled her blood.

Moistly eyes
Enduring this agony across his once body
That's screaming to feel and smell her skin,
Breaking the bridge over past
Life's.
Solitary presence now lives symbolically.

A path that leaves
Into thoughts the cemetery grounds
Rested her steps into grieves.
The long and dark hair flows
Away.