All he asked for, was a poem
dark ink on starched white sheets
but was it enough, she wondered?
She wrote about her hearts longings
her hopes – her dreams
and she wondered, would he understand?
Would he hear her faint cries in the dark of night?
Would it even matter?
The paper, now crumpled – she grabbed another
she wrote furiously about all the pain she sees
she writes about the blood – the tears
the many hearts, now broken
hearts that seek substance and meaning
and she cried many tears – alone
swept upon the page in gilded ink
and she wondered, would anyone hear her cry?
The paper, crumpled in a heap – another fresh sheet
and she wrote about the beauty that thrived before her eyes
the swoop and dive of hawk across the sky
of untended beauty in a field of golden wild grass
dancing gaily when caressed by a gentle wind
she wrote of the sun, the moon and the stars
of all she held close and dear
she wrote in only the words her heart could speak
and she knew no matter the time or circumstance
there never were enough words
to say all that was in her heart.
© Sumyanna 2015
Beautiful image courtesy of Pixabay.com