untitled./././
It was not yet finished.
A heavy arm.
An open hand.
Sliding into a pocket.
An artery,
thumping, beating,
pushing, pushing...
The door opens, slowly.
She had broken free.
Still bruised from chains and
heavy feathers.
She looked past an enemy.
A crippling fear, two inches away.
She looked at the birds fighting gravity.
It was decided.
Your knees are not scraped
and your heart does not lie
broken on cold cement.
This poem was written by Alina on Sep 06, 2007.
No comments yet.
