As if the world could be told of its miserable luck,
Our whispered words could not take,
The holy smile of the cherished one,
The unholy curse of the broken.
'Who are we?' they ask at the end,
Their words echoing blankly outwards.
And for the story that shall never end,
The beginning has barely begun.
We did not need to be told ever,
But yet we were, too soon for hope.
Blank lighting through white walls,
We barely see the night.
Too bright to see in here,
And too dark away from white,
So we wonder why.
We decide we can change but then
The promises are broken.
And we are left, alone.
Such is the soul's reflection.
YOU ARE READING
Heartstrings, Dreamsongs: A Book of Poetry
PoesieA book of poetry written by poet and aspiring author, Rachel Jesmer (or, as she calls herself online, Kunabee Tiger). "Heartstrings, Dreamsongs" is her first collection of poetry, part of the reason it's so brief. She hopes to have more poetry col...
