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Her name was Natasha.
Tasha,
like a lover, a painting, a poem
she was never wrong
like
all the stars and planets in the sky,
the lyrics to his favorite song.
a cold breeze in summer,
an explosion of color
and sometimes
a runner.
Natasha,
her hair long and lustrous,
Forrest eyes a compass
Her laugh like wine,
irresistibly divine.
She was a feast to all five senses
from her fruity voice
to that flowery smell
to the freckles
that came in abundance.
The miracle
was born wondrous,
her soul fierce and
ever so boundless
until came the day that
Napoleon crept by,
soundless
and
held a knife to her throat.
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YOU ARE READING
Napoleon
Poetry❞he swore he'd let her kill him a million times and a million more before he laid a finger on a single thread of the dress she wore.❞ [©2016PO]
