Pause

You reside on protective winds,
Waves she won’t honestly understand; and been denied.
Bringing peace to bruised souls deemed worth saving.
Left early to her own devices,
She questions helpful hands
Prefers avoiding disappointment, yet failed.
Forced to believe she’s meant to be alone,
Soul searching required, and left to wonder
Why life is the way it is.

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Where Do I Fit In?

how can a poetess, such as I,
a writer of love,
her desire for it,
her continued search
of its perfection,
be asked to step away
from her attachment towards
its existence, so that she
might find her place in someone’s
world?
they don’t know me at all.

Stoic Protector

Do you know the owl,
The one who sits now
Upon the middle limb,
The patchwork branch,
Of a once thriving essence?
Her skin is exposed,
Bare, light timber
Amongst veined,
Even freckled patches of,
Black and grey bark.
Owl remains perched,
Guarding at the helm,
As the brightest star sets
Behind thinning stock, and
What is now his tree,
Whether he chooses to
Believe it or not.
She’s the aftermath of
Witnessed abuse,
Pain felt,
And reoccurring sadness
As others depart.
He’s her stoic protector
And shall not fade
With the evening sun.