I.

Rippling reflections,
the longing for a
ribbon of perfection
tied at our waists.

Our souls distorted
by greedy hands,
voices lost in the
bloodshed
and
warzones
of distant lands.

We crawled
through
flowerbeds
for pieces of
our beating hearts,
searching for stories
in the ruins of a
forest fire
which
t o r e
us apart.

II.                                                                          

Tape measures,
needles,
thread.

Are these the
tools we need
to cure our
dread?

Venus glances at
a world of
shambles and
thorns

She remembers a time
of unity.

A time where
beauty of a voice;
of a mind
was considered
divine,
and begins
to mourn.

III.

She crawls down from
the sky,
her ego marred
by calamity
and lies.

Lies of a woman
who only
cared for
the external,
who believed
the fountain
of youth
was eternal.

Yet,
this woman
suffered
through
thick
and
thin.

Several
humans
composed
into the
goddess within.

IV.

She embroiders
their words back
to the faceless
bodies
of those
unheard.

Paints over
the illusion
of a faceless
being
as the image
foreseen,

rips apart the
walls which
divide
and
discriminate
at the seams.

Butterflies,
a call for
revolution
roars through
the fractures
of a mangled
self esteem.