Every so often
I go back to old and
I find myself thinking
Where is that chic?

Ruthless and cutting
With her words
Spit fire from her spirit
Liquid gold from her lips

Inked down on the pavement
Rhythmic engravings
From the ink pen stitched
To her heart, ripped

From her soul where the
Verses are made whole
From the broken pieces
Floating throughout that chic’s

Mind, wanderlustings
Aren’t really a thing
But maybe that’s where she’s gone

Drifting in a life not built for her
But meant to hide her from her own

unsplash-logoBlake Cheek