trembling,
her hands are trembling.
it cannot hold the pen.
it starts to scribble.
her mind wants it to stop,
but it can't.
it has its own mind.
it danced the pen;
the paper became
a dance floor.
and then it stopped.
and revealed something;
a figure;
a child.
it was the owner of the hand
who had rivers in her eyes
that fed the flowers.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
