It's cold by the window,
the room, and the door.
There's little comfort
but on the dark floor.
She sits and she waits
for the dark to subside.
But the light is long coming,
and her eyes aren't yet dry.
Dream-Thoughts are fleeting,
bloodless, and still.
Akin to the bird lying
on the wood window sill.
Her hands shake and tremble,
she's unwound and unformed.
Like the universe, the chaos,
outside of her door.
She knows not what she does
or what she's here for.
But when the light comes
she'll be free evermore. |
Submission Name: River
