On Going . . .
Under a witch’s moon
blows the wind that blows within
she sings her songs
in out of tune
In her troubled heart
sorrow blows across her soul
on a restless storm
of
going . . . . away
Her slender shoulders carry weight
unmeasured
of you
who looks inside and weeps
and
God you were a friend
and
she cries
a river winding
through valleys dark
where you have gone
and
Where endless deserts end
sand catches between her toes
scuffing pretty plumes
of prismed moonlight
into dust
Copyright © Jill Martin | Year Posted 2006
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment