Blond

I've never trusted prophecies at all,
But through the mirror, to my great surprize,
I see myself, surrounded by dyes,
And like the ashes on a burning coal
The white, defeating darkness of the locks,
Advances ways from inward to the top.
And, suffocated by the acrid drop,
My hair get the tint as on the box.
I can't believe I did this to myself...
As those of cruel murderer with red,
My hands are stained and through unpleasant smell
The premonition comes of going mad.
"Hey, did I do it right?" She will not tell...
Or was it just a dream? The ball... The sand...

May 12, 2010