Her tight eyes open.
Hands trembling too softly,
woken in the night.

Her lungs beg for air.
Yet, oxygen is too sweet
for her solemn heart.

Be asked food for thought,
her mind is crumbling bread.
No Saviour is left.

'His touch is like gold,'
they say. But how can it be?
They've touched him never.

We've yet to see him.
Be his eyes every colour?
Will we ever know?

She lays. And then, looks
outside to see but footprints
in the white of snow

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem