Ominous, as the whistle through the birch.
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.
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.
scouring me of victim’s debris.
knocking on wood.
In the cleanse of a passing shower.
A calling from above,
‘I would let go…If I only could.’