Poetry by Mischele
The great escape.
Scorned eyes pierced through shadows in the trees.
She was lost.
Lips peaked through redwoods.
Her voice.
Wind nestles leaves that reveal tangled locks.
Inhale, as she draws you in.
She deplores her sanctioned securities.
Exhales pushing you further away.
Her voice.
Large; peaks appear beside her.
Her ears are seen.
Jaw drops, as the sounds of birds escape her tongue.
Her voice.
Glittered in a remarkable soul.
Her lyrical linguistics were heard.
Silence is what she sang.
She is nature.
She was pure.
The sounds of the forest fill the air.
Her voice.
She was near but had ventured far.
She was nowhere to be seen but forever heard.
She was the voice of the animals and the tamer of the beast.
She is the forever flowing river that separates prey from hunters.
She was the truth unborn.
Clouds rain down on her branches enriching her soil.
Her voice.
She knew everything and said nothing.
She is the great escape.
