Rhys Owens Poems
Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground;
Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around
The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again,
Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin
To grow; their petals moist with rain, and tears, left over
From cruel storms bold enough to haunt this cold December.
A hope in Hell, for those that still have the strength to dream
Of Heaven here on what seems to be a barren earth.
Opening her mouth, she still could not muster a scream,
And could not bear the memory of love's distant ...
it's not enough Guinevere,
or should i call you Morgana?
unless you, too, see me
like a novelty act, with your shiny wizard.
you're always against everything anyway.
the cliched apples,
the nudes i draw,
the fig leaves your nerves cover them up with.