there was a woman
with flowers in her hair
and toes in the grass
and the wind would
whisper as she danced
to the crickets and birds
and she was beautiful.
when she came to the river
she soaked up the sun
and stood strong in the current
and the water learned
that women like her
cannot be wiped out
and she was beautiful.
she went to the river with a man
and two babies
and they were a painting
they splashed in creeks
and climbed to treetops
playing hide-and-go-seek
the kids were pastel oranges
the man, forest greens
her, watercolor blues
and she was beautiful.
the leaves fell
the crickets hushed
and then buds peeked out again
there is a woman
with smoke in her hair
and blistered toes
and the wind whispers
as she hikes
through mountains and valleys
and she is beautiful.
when she comes to the river
she stares down the flood
standing battered against the current
but the water knows
that women like her
will put up a fight
and she is beautiful.
there is a man
and two children
they're a torn canvas
they step over creeks
and don't look at treetops
and no one seeks anymore
the brushes and paints
have long since
been boxed away
but still she is beautiful.
YOU ARE READING
desolation
Poesíades·o·la·tion ˌdesəˈlāSH(ə)n/ noun a state of complete emptiness or destruction. anguished misery or loneliness. just a book of my inner thoughts, feelings, and observations TRIGGER WARNING: may include eating disorders, self harm, alcoholism, suici...
