Ode to the Wild Tresses Poem, by Friendship, at My poetic side

Ode to the Wild Tresses

I stand before the mirror’s chrome, a forest at my crown—

Each curl a twisted vine, each strand a stubborn root.

They coil like rivers spilling over cliffs of bone,

And in their tangled sighs I hear the stories I’ve sewn.

Please don’t cut my thick curly hair—

let it stay the untamed bramble that guards my skin,

the amber sunrise that crowns my mornings,

the midnight storm that crowns my nights.

For in those loops lie secret maps of who I’ve been:

the playground’s laughter, the whispered lullaby,

the rebel’s chant that cracked a silent room,

the lover’s sigh that curled around my spine.

A razor’s bite would be a winter’s frost,

a clean line that steals the fire from the woods,

leaving only the faint echo of a meadow,

where once the wind sang through a thousand arches.

So spare the scissors, spare the blade—

let every coil remain a promise, not a promise broken;

let every curl be a promise kept, a pledge to grow,

a banner raised for all the days I dare to be whole.

In the mirror I’ll watch the world swirl,

but my curls will stay the galaxy that spins,

each spiral a star, each curl a constellations’ line—

and I will wear them, fierce and free,

until the sun itself forgets to set.

Ode to the Wild Tresses