Paula Swanson 7/31/2011
A hand held out in supplicance, ignored,
wanting nothing more, than to feed a child.
The dry cough of an ancient river bed,
where once a great river ran wild.
The last leaf to fall from a tree,
when from mankind, denied a drink.
The slow motion action, before a wreck.
Those seconds, when your heart sinks.
The times when nothing that they say,
changes how you act or what you do.
The fall from grace, you try to hide.
From those who look up to you.
The words that flow from your pen,
that your tongue cannot vocalize.
Dreaded mortality, that is ever present,
reveals a clarity you humanize.
**Note: The shape of the poem, represents
the vessel that holds mankind's tears
For the contest: Sounds Of A Cry....
Sponsored by Michael J. Falotico