Ominous, as the whistle through the birch.

Watchful eyes.

Vacant as the day, they left this earth.

A distant voice.

Peaceful with the way we hurt.

Primitive in an organic manner.

Crowded blank, planks.

Rotten with the insight.

A casualty has come to stay.

Isolated, during early morning…

When the sun rests behind shade.

A time…

When the wind calls her name.

Born to a similar batch of thorns.

I came in search of sameness.

But from a different point of view.

Deep in the knotted, hollow…

My attempt at name calling, a bit askew.

The small town in me…

Brought distant sounds closer.

Rainfall…

scouring me of victim’s debris.

A voice…

echoing.

Watching…

knocking on wood.

In the cleanse of a passing shower.

A calling from above,

‘I would let go…If I only could.’

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s