She observes it mark the wall
like a canvas, left neglected by the artist
The chalk is like a wand in her hands,
Creating an enchanting spell of shapes and curves.
The woken wind will never touch the colored dust, single letters fading.
Maintining, holding its wishes, dreams etched upon a wall.
YOU ARE READING
Small Voices
NouvellesWhile I sit alone, the voices whisper in my head. I close my eyes to hear them say."write us.... don't let us die when you're dead....."
