There is a girl inside me whimpering for your attentions

Lock-keeper of love's door, her hands

a mess of sores

gloveless against the spines and barbs of

poetic nonsense, spun

on a shoddy loom.

She is small and sullen

combing through logic and strife

That savage search for beauty

born too late, old too early

round tones and long vowels a relic of

Loam-founded seats of the past

Form, the caustic commotion

of superiors and peers

Whisks like dry leaves on a wind

that flows over cheeks,

gold curls over pale-powder neck

as she sways, eyes soft on the horizon

I can't decide whether I like this or not. This is what happens when I try to imitate someone else's style. If it doesn't come naturally, it's not meaningful.