Author's Note //
This piece was published, year 2015,
by Poetic Power in "Creative Communications."
And I lost my way on the greyest of days
when it was neither black or white.
The river was conversing and the riptide was tempting
and so I sat on the edge full of desire.
Darling I was never perfect and far from ideal.
My body was raw and worn, tired from having to feel.
I lost my way on the greyest of days
when he told me I was ash and dust.
I was never amiss,
but what do you do when your eyes turn to the color of rust.
I fell to the water below and I was neither warm or drowning in the cold.
I lost my way on the greyest of days
When my body was anything but heavy enough to sink,
and was never light enough to float.
I was forgotten in a blink of an eye and
the riptide wrapped around my throat.
I lost my way on the greyest of days
and the riptide was my only savior.
The air was calling for another betrayal
and down came six white angels:
two to sing, two to pray, and two to carry my soul away.
