sorrow holds her
heartstrings..
and
he tugs
like they’re
unbreakable things,
they’ve got so
little give,
but she
has
a fighter’s
will to
live
shadow play
she stares
from her painting,
like no one sees her
but me-
the lonely old
voyeur..
gazing up from
bent knee.
wrote an old fashioned
letter,
with an old pen from
the drawer,
to an old friend
from times
before–
we left home
for more.
a snow owl
with ice
eyes,
a treetop ‘neath
ash skies,
ol’ smoke stacks
inhaling
the sharp
air..
impaling.
photos with
smudges..
of ghosts holding
grudges–
and scribbled on
behind
is a date
in bold black
that we can’t
take back.
softened thoughts
in genteel
mind,
a smoker’s cough,
but more
refined,
no cage
bars..
to
hide behind–
in light of day,
can’t help but shine.
was that wave
aimed at
me..
or someone
behind?
held the door out
of pity
or
just to look
kind?
offered help for
the thank
you
or just to give
blind?
i’d be grateful, were i
in the right state
of mind.
fresh cut
smell
on slipping
day,
holding
on..
only to watch
it fade,
deep gut
swell,
the night grows
bare
little left to do
but stare.
craving inner
silence..
but dreams mostly
of violence,
wakes up to own
scratches..
clutching a book
of matches,
yet rises to
face..
the
quietness,
a lioness,
she is.
absence grips
on tightly,
thoughts of your
warmth
remind
me..
how
to feel-
with empty
space
beside
me..
but never
inside.
hands in the garden 
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