Those Who Hurl Stones-Not For Contest
This poem was entered in Julia Ward's contest but I've decided not to write for her.
At the footbridge I pause for one last glance
at naysayers who never gave me a chance.
River rushes in a roar, stronger than my rage,
my anger uncontrolled like the aggression of old age.
I am leaving behind a life gone wrong.
No longer happy where I don't belong.
I have to cross the river to be rid of my woes
and escape the cruel biddies, those jealous foes.
A smile touches my lips once over the footbridge,
I stare longingly at the mountains beyond the ridge.
A deep breath taken, and then two more,
calming me while the river continues to roar.
Behind me shrill voices screaming my name.
I grow tired of hearing them taunt me with shame.
My rankling increases as they hurl stones.
I turn to curse them, those bitter old crones.
With two pointed fingers, an evil spell I cast.
At the footbridge, I watch them breathe their last.
7/18/2016
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