moving on
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The sound of the ivories being played lifts attention to my beating heart. The melody so sweet and without charm pierces my senses. I sing out into an open space, finding myself in a clearing where my wilted flowers lie. A once beautiful meadow built for color and life. I blame the sun, the moon,
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I’ve been avoiding writing more than a poem. I can express more with a metaphor in print than I could ever say in my own words. So, here I am saying more than a few lines to get by; and damn my life has changed. Last fall I went through a lot. I was dealing with the in-between.
Wishful Thinking 