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Wendy Sackor Poem
Twenty years running,
brushing past the dust of the road;
ode to the dreams weighted by the gazes of doubt
around her song dancing.
No one spoke of his name,
he hovered the streets like morning fog;
ode to what he stood for to make the mess
around his world cursing.
Secrets marched softly in a row,
marched ever so softly in tow.
She said love would burn her, spitting the ashes back home in a beggar's hand.
Church bells once were ringing,
dangling through the gust of wind;
ode to her happiness weaker than the bitter hereafter
around her soul dancing.
No one told of his tale,
he haunted her thoughts whenever it rained;
ode to her strength that wasn't enough
around her life draining.
Secrets marched softly in a row,
down by the river slowly in tow.
She always swore love would burn her, and leave her dead cold.
Copyright © Wendy Sackor | Year Posted 2006
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