She is a proud paradox

She is proud to be a paradox
— a medley of contradictions,
a waxing and waning confluence
of antonyms.

Refusing to smile
she grimaces at jokes,
and finds humor in biting sarcasm.

She thought he loved her
so refused to see him;
yet she waited by the phone,
lest she missed him.

She brewed insomnia in coffee cups
when sleep eluded him,
gifting him thorn-strewn cacti
of birthdays festooned in rosy wishes.

Wishing for daffodils in november,
she yearned for a snowman on May noons.
In a full moon she saw scars,
the sun a ruddy faced drunk, at dusk,
soon drowned in night’s stupor.

A quiet pansy~ an unseen wallflower
when gregarious poppies danced in breeze,
she opts to be a glowworm, of stardust whispers
dusting onyx skies in radiant sparkles.

She rolls poems over silent tongues,
in solitude of moonlit nights,
burring daylight in newspaper clippings
to chronicle the contemporary and pragmatic.

Dreaming of the moon
adorning her wrists in silver,
she strings hursinghars to garland
herself in reflections of the dawn.

She is a song, scattering
her words as confetti in the winds,
to become an orphaned tune
searching for lyrics amid wildflowers.

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