Death on Hold
by Odin Roark
Once
the what of lonely was asked
“why does this heart feels tired,
worn out,
fatigued?”

“Are flowers
no longer to open their petals,
skies remaining gray and void of love's colors?”

The what of lonely invoked the dialectic with
“Is this loneliness but the result of passion unanswered
regrets unheard
contriteness unaccepted
weeping without acceptance of self?”

With a gentle touch...

“Could lonely be more than a word of sadness?
Might it be but death on hold?”

The questioning gathered its shadows and disappeared,
leaving behind high above, a robin's egg
moving precariously
beneath a mother
peering intently
as a dawning sky
emerged.