Like the roots of an old & dying tree,
She kept every bit there was in her.
She wails as she loses her grip,
Tensed as every tick gets faster.
She shed tears of plain anguish,
Hanging by this little swing of agony.
Every thought seeped into her little veins,
Grieving in search for that lost intimacy.
The sun passes through the window blinds,
She was thinking of the things she could have said.
A heavy heart & a cynical mind that she had,
She lies in bed whispering to herself: 'I am not mended.'
─ Julie Pauline Moscoso
No comments:
Post a Comment