The chair
Creaks with age,
As do the
Bones
Of the woman
Inside it.
Her hair
Is all greyed,
As are her
Eyes...
Crying silent.
Back,
She rocks...
And forth.
Back...
And forth.
A rhythm
To steady
Her old, dying heart.
The beat
To the music
That makes up her
Soul.
She sews
As she rocks,
A black patterned frock
For the child
She lost
Long ago.
Back,
She rocks...
And forth.
Back...
And forth.
Her mind
Is not
Here,
But on years
Long faded
To memories.
And slowly,
But surely,
Her hands rest on her legs...
Her head falls forward...
Her eyes lose their light...
And she becomes nothing
But one
Of the memories...
Yet somehow,
Her chair
Does not slow...
Back,
It rocks...
And forth.
Back...
And forth.
YOU ARE READING
Organized Chaos - These are My Thoughts
PoetryNo, These are not poems. So flimsy a thing as can be called a few words on a page. These are thoughts. Paper thoughts, broken and scattered and gone like the wind. Iron anvil thoughts, never leaving though it is all I can ever ask of them. Invisible...
