Poem: Flick – 15/06/21

I toss my hair back,
my mane flows,
breathes with the life
only the dubious have eternally felt,
the ignorant have experienced,
the naïve have known.

Tossing, flicking,
side to side,
contact,
contraction,
the exploring butterflies
want, they need to hide.

My mane’s a weapon,
an instrument of mass destruction,
whip it, girl,
some dancers would say,

strands bunched as one,
admirably thick,
enviously strong,
lengthily, lengthily,
we all roll along,
fingers drag through hair,
I won’t ever be proven wrong.

Mentioning, must be mentioned,
what is this which
permeates my list
written beneath the brand new moon?

Absent-minded flick,
a smile,
connections,
as is,

don’t burn this list,
it’s meant to give,
allow me to quietly receive,

strand-by-strand,
nothing, not a single hair
is awry, nor amiss.

© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by mododeolhar from Pexels

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