Ataraxia.

Those vivid, painful memories,
Of my almost-a- groom
I immortalized into a mere piece of plume
Which I later put beside the mirror in my room
To reminisce the sweetness as they presumed
And from the coral colored ray hope will loom
To hatch the stubborn cocoons of gloom
May by sunrise, poison ivy and lilies bloom
Sprawling on the ground that was once doomed.

Though I might be dead, buried without a tomb
I'll still be a placid fetus in a maiden's womb.

by Qiez Medusa AR, Monday, 26 March 2012