stranded
alone
she struggles over compromises
and bent promises
of future yesterdays and tomorrows
both of which will never come to pass
yet hesitantly knowing that this too will pass
This
the echoing void that suffocates her softly beating heart
and occupies her barren loins
reverberating
counting
intellectual rubbish
broken glass that cuts
without blood
without tears
bandaged in a cloak of nothingness
strike a match
there is no flame
something so important in the moments held captive in her memory
and imagination
gone
she closes her eyelids
and sleeps
Faded Parchment
There is a theory that all stories have already been told and everything else is just recycled. Maybe that is true. But it doesn't mean for us to give up on our thoughts. Here begins the search into the crags of the mind for the unwritten life, the adventure of an untold story, and the creation of definable characters.
