The chords
she hoards
within her febrile mind
are rich
in pitch
much like the ties that bind.
Her words
are swords
and all that's left unsaid
is worth
the earth
hatched in her fertile head.
The wise
with eyes
to see and ears to hear,
will know
she'll sew
with that she holds most dear.
And in
the grin
of her tempestuous soul
the balm
of calm
will be her final goal.
Steve Wheeler © 18 September, 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment