The colors of life shift
within a fixed parameter.
Movable blocks of shadow
and light, interchangeable,
                                          or not. 

She tired

of hollow promises to change,

afraid

of catching glimpses of the boys

in his face.

Fading somewhere

along the edge of the nightmare

is the memory of a dream.

Hope trailed off

on some distant sigh,

although

she can no longer remember when.

She wants more

for herself, for their sons.

She needs

an absence of congealed tension.

Pam Patterson © 2004