The Wish
You do not know me until you walk
My exile years of pain
A withered flower on the stalk
Where abilities sleep in chain
And I have hoped for more
Digging the edges of dry gardens
Using salt water from the shore
Of grief, sulking at deaf pardons
I want to hear my children laugh
And feel their arms around me
To redeem the time and shout aloft
Rewriting wasted history.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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