you pray for the cure at dawn whilst the light melts off your skin.

Icarus, hopeless bird-child,

you put a knife in your back, twist,

fall off a bridge to vex the sun, tranquil.

It is meaningless

whatever you decide to do.

Shame clouds your judgement now, it consumes you as

you feed on your soul, always: search for the heart.

Thoughts destroy structure —

on a moonless night, with two dark stars,

they are the makers of the world.




Laura Izabela_author photo1


Laura Izabela is a vagabond, writer and poet, currently living in London, UK. Not much to her name but a big coat, an infinite soul and some paper. Find her on Twitter at @lauraizm17.