Arriving

I

 

 

as I child I would sit in my room

 

counting the roses on the wall

 

wishing for a better life than I

 

had. finger nail trails on my skin,

 

thirsty tears trailing pink carpet,

 

suicide letters piled on the desk

 

composed in rushed fervency.

 

 

II

 

this tattered child is hidden in me

 

I cradle her in the dark lonely hours,

 

calming the panic woven through

 

her brown ringlets and ribbons.

 

I sing her lullabies of faraway lands

 

where there are only tears of joy.

 

 

 

 

III

 

as an adult, on my desk a writer's

 

notebook lay with enigmas and

 

jotted life pain bloomed within me.

 

words haunting in dead of sleep;

 

during lunch hour when the streets

 

are filled with loud, broken people.

 

I am rushed with a purpose bigger

 

then my child-self could perceive;

 

a life of wild journeys and arriving.

 

Reviews

[Constance]

This is amazing.
"the loud broken people", I'd never thought of the bustle of a city in a busy hour that way, but it's true.