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.