The Passing Voice

The Passing Voice

“The Passing Voice”

She’s sitting on the line
not willingly
I know she’d rather be on the other side
of life’s woundings.

Thin gray eyes, willowy fingers—
a lost prize of vanity,
a long breathy silence,
with a wilting slow voice
tells me she must watch the dead people.

I ceased shivering years ago;
her mind is like a chill wind
blowing through the forest shade.

With her broken wings
she has endured without
conquest or reward.

She is a child, beautiful,
ageless, shining like rain,
sing-song and sanguine.

A weary pause—
then she says she feels empty.

I weep with the trembling undersong
of this single cloudless moment.


2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 6


Speak to me of thoughts unspoken.

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