The Waiting Room
The Waiting Room
I can not think straight,
and the crooked thoughts
that invade my heart...
tear it slowly to pieces.
Grief,
a drop of pain that continues,
like acid to seep deeper,
and deeper into the wound.
Chernobyl,
taking years to diminish,
lasting entire lifetimes,
stagnant to newness.
It is only the brightness,
of angels passing above,
that lend the reflections of dreams
turned from stone;
to prayers... feather-light.
On my knees in my head,
if not physically before "You"...
In public and in private I cry.
I could not bear the pain,
if it were not that I know,
the rainbow holds
the heaven,
of my loves soul.
Jesus.
Ann Foster, aka A. Foster
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