Thursday, June 21, 2012

In Hand

She traps me
when she leaches from the ground
black tar….. to cover me
no longer can I breathe –
nor fly.

Cocooned, I watch her
as she always leaves a trail
but never looks behind
because she knows….
what she left.
Animated – is her conscious
desperate energy
which fly’s.
This single social butterfly
with ink – driven into her skin
scarred….. detached numbers
without a meaning –
or an end.
What is she to do
but hover… in her delight
fluttering to lies
which we all see –
and recognise.
A frightened woman
this little girl is
a compass
without a bearing
she’s lost…..
her way home.
But I am where she left me
the tarnish on the floor
waiting by the window
a candle –
lit at night.
I wear no smile
I am no judge
for she is… her only jury
my only gavel
is an open heart –
in hand.

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