A life of unsteady blurs…
All in eyes that belonged to a spirit too drained to open them.
What kind of things must have occurred?
To stray so far from where she should’ve been.
A specter of misfortune, she lies.
In a cold and damp prison too small for her brittle guise.
The world is waiting in her hands for someone to hear it,
But alone it stays…
With no one to go near it.
Captured me right from the first line and held my attention on each word. Very nicely done and good to see your name come up on posting list again. Hope your Mom is well.
fee
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
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