Commission

The world is empty. Dry. Time is out of order. 

Her commission is done. Life is a vacuum. It’s empty like a 

Chasm of quiet, locked within a buried tomb beneath 

Heavy blocks of stone, that will never again be 

Moved aside. Locked away, and cold, her soul can

Hide itself with bony fingers, a mummified action, cover itself . . . 

Like a spider’s weaving perfect net. Hands that are so thin and barely able  

To move an inch, so weak are they from heavy labor. Yet, they spin a talent, fabric made of silk and 

Lies- to wrap herself up inside a 

Perfect guise. It’s a little girl that cries unbidden, and no one-

Is there to give her solace, words of motivation, or 

Private exchanges, the kind that can make children think

About the joys of life- like candy slipped beneath the table over 

Dinner, sitting next to Grandma Katherine. She tells herself that she should dry 

Her eyes, orbs that are black marbles looking out 

A tiny strand of light, her last view of the tunnel that is

An entrance, to the physical world she knows, 

And everything that is inside it. That she should close it, and just 

Be done with it. Her words are like the browning edges of 

Leaves that curl and wither, as they move

To their final destination, to come upon a landscape that 

Is cold and barren, and as the trees go on to the next stage-

Winter, and it’s dearth 

Have truly fallen. And snow falls over the tomb, as the

Words inside of her diminish 

And the pages of the poem she writes, no longer 

Have anything of substance. 

Author's Note

Inspired music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGkZNy-aWAQ&t=1539s
- Photo by David Boca on Unsplash