a hollow wind screams, yet no branches bend or break— the cry has no mouth
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Poets
the lake holds its breath, a single ripple circles— no cry ever leaves
the river holds still, faces gather in the depths— none return my gaze
a lantern sways dark, drawing souls from out the path— no hand carries it
embers faintly glow, faces flicker in the smoke— the pyre still breathes on
a road without end, footfalls echo after dusk— no one walks it now
roots coil underground, whispering in hollow tongues— the soil hums with names
shadows breathe in stone, footsteps linger without form— the earth holds its ghosts
Sitting in the sun. Air that moves and brings the calm. Slow, take the moment.
By Rachael Anraabout a year ago in Poets
night inherits flame, souls of autumn drift inward, bright as memory
last crimson echo wanders down the empty sky— silence holds it fast
the field keeps their names, every leaf a syllable spoken into earth
