Mirrored Silence
mornings are a mother’s mirror,
merciless in clarity
and hideous in reflection;
as I pass doors, now closed.
the patter of feet
resounding in nothing but echo;
the sun highlighting a calendar
casting shadows on beginnings,
while leaving endings, hanging
in terminal silence.
my bosom heaves, for it is dry;
arms aching
with the weight of emptiness;
hindsight tossing laughter,
cracking
the brittleness of solitude;
and memory is the pain borne
carried unwillingly
and then interred
far too deeply within…
Copyright © Bernadette Langer | Year Posted 2009
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