Ghazal: Self-Reflection in Gold

You are my dead star, my planet core of gold,
you never realized you stood on the cusp of gold.

You were teenage cliché, never going to school,
instead spending all your days panning fool’s gold.

You let words seep out of you like ichor, a life-story,
not enough stones gathered to hold your bleeding gold.

You feared you would be cut down like the pines,
life wasted to sawdust; the boot dangling gold.

You ran from pyrite, its inability to hold memories.
Like weasel rabid, you bite letters into pages, burying gold.

I see you, Mea, in the ink that spills from loose pen tips,
the wretched overflow spilling from you; you will gold.

Mea Andrews is a writer from Georgia, who currently resides in China. She is finishing up her MFA from Lindenwood University and is only recently back on the publication scene. You can find her in The Round, Feminine Inquiry, and others. You can also follow her on Instagram: @mea_writes