Ankica Anchie, Poem
Moderator 
THE MUSEUM OF THE WAXEN HEART
I was one of those mornings
the sun gently embraces,
yet every ray
remains unspoken
Beneath my skin-an ocean smoldered,
not the one that foams and crashes,
but the one that whispers
and remembers
The underside of the soul,
a mirror made of reflections,
of tremors that fade
in a gaze filled with unrest
My lips were half a verse,
half a wound.
My forehead creased with dreams,
sticky with desires I never spoke
And my heart? My heart became
a figure in the museum of waxen breath-
it stood still,
yet never stopped singing
Sometimes, before sleep,
a thought would seize me,
like a storm without warning
Then I would sing,
softly, to myself,
a ballad of transience
and a longing without end
And always,
within that ballad,
there is room for a bud,
the one hidden in a shell,
within me,
still believing in crimson dawns,
still painting with the ink of hope
a suitcase of lost dreams
Ankica Anchie, Criatia
Humanist, Poetessa, Author
