It's puzzle pieces dropped on the rug, and she is expected to pick it all up and put it to rights... but the edges are worn and the colors blend together, making it impossible to distinguish where and how... but more so... why? She was young once, as any human encased in meat is surely to have been, and it was then that her story shifted from biography to tragedy. You see, a death awakens the mind to its own mortality. When we peer through that door the darkness beyond seems cold and frightening... but long she stood and stared. Quaking in footy pajamas, she was frozen in place and the only echo she heard back was her timid voice squeaking "Daddy?" It is from these echoes the past has grown, planted in blooded soil, she grew into a future that cast many stones... but she stood up to face them with all she could find of her courage. It was armor, those. Tied bitter moments came together over her skin like metal plates... but the echoes remained. She called for her "Daddy". But don't think this makes her weak! No, never weak, just alone on the thresh hold... squeaking for Daddy. And it was these perturbed soils that sprung her up, and it was many hard moons before she found her voice strong again. Strong enough to say no. Strong enough to call for a new hope, and strong enough to say "I love you". But still she whispers... "Daddy?"
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
