Aching miles of golden grain whisper:
‘We are your malice
your holy grail
and you will be mine,
eternal’.
The flame of desire quivering
within your palms clutching
the edge of reason,
severed by your homeland,
poorer for all you know is lost
The four winds howling in unison
mock your majestic mind,
call your names, one by one
for here is where you belong
to no-one.
© 2009 Michaela James.
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