The friend
held her hand.
When she cried,
it squeezed
her hand,
once.
When she was alone,
it patted
her shoulder
with
its
hand
once,
twice.
When she was angry,
it
threaded its
fingers
with hers
and
swung their
hands
back
and forth,
once,
twice,
thrice.
And then
she saw
someone
smiling
far
away
that was
holding
out
its
own hand.
So
she tried
to
let go
and
restart.
But
a hand
covered
her
eyes.
And
Darkness
pulled
her
away.
YOU ARE READING
Feathers: A Book of Poetry
شِعرA pencil is the spotlight of a soul. It tells them its okay to overflow. It tells them ideas are art, and that the best ones are masterpieces. Feathers is a collection of poetry by me to convey the beauty and undeniable strife of the world, and emot...
