Like a dust storm
swirls of grey, dark, darker still.
Whirl of words stick to skin
broken twigs, stabs of blame.
Misery clings to eye lids,
sneers and looks of disdain
seen in every moment of wakefulness.
Like sheaves of wheat broken in the gale
she droops, snaps, folds in to herself.
Years of neglect wrought this reality.
She disappears, marginalized,
haze floating on the wind.
Mouth open, silent howls, she succumbs.
Responsibility acknowledged by no one.
Acrid pain swallowed,
she chokes on life.
Trees have many stories, the old ones, many more with roots that grow far beyond what we humans will ever see. This is just beautiful, Lillian.
Have a lovely weekend, my friend.
am:)
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Thank you my friend. Beautiful sunshine this morning – walking by the Charles will be a joy today.
Happy weekend to you as well!
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