Runaway

The Runaway

At the edge of a rocky roadside, stood a little girl, it was here she came in dirty rags, with saddened eyes and fingers crossed wishing for something more

Her hair entangled from neglect, her feet were bare and scarred, a cruel reminder of poverty shadowed the fairy tales of yore

But here she came with fingers crossed everyday at four

Rush, rush, run away, soar among clouds,  mind the branches, mind the thorns, mind the stones below

 Search for shelter from the rains, hide under the willow trees, rest your head against its shoulder and close your eyes to dream

Rush, rush to find yourself, secure it with lock and keys take it with you in your heart and hide from the thieves

Now she stands in luxury at her gabled door, the baubles weigh heavily upon her slender frame, and the gems sparkle brightly with commitment  on her crossed finger; as the clock in the distance ticks slowly on, and chimes everyday at four

Lost Love

Lost Love

The snow fell gently today as I strolled down the narrow paths in the old town where we used to meet, the large billowy snowflakes gathered on and around me, I did not attempt to brush them off

I wanted to see you again, even if from a distance and you were with her

I carried the morning’s paper announcing your upcoming nuptials, and felt the weeping of my heart

 I tried to control my tears seeing the images of you on the crumpled paper, holding the hand of a stranger

I searched the image for the courage that had once been in your eyes, and saw only the likeness of a person I used to know.

The caption read that all the towns finest would be in attendance, and I wondered what one would have to acquire or accomplish to be considered the finest

 I passed the tavern, the café and all the quaint shops we used to visit and was not brave enough to go inside

I pulled my wrap close as the snow continued to fall

The soft crystal like flakes melted into the crevices of stones on the path we once strolled, and I sat on the wooden bench at the edge of town, smoothing out the paper to see your face again

This is where I will say good-by my lost love, I will leave you here with the history, the charm and the bench where we used to hold hands, and I will let you fade from memory, just as the images on these pages are now fading with the melting snow

Shadows

Shadows

Time was moving on like the winding rivers that flow toward the oceans, where they seek comfort in its cradling strength

 I found myself being carried along with it, drifting aimlessly in the current

I wanted to feel alive again, to feel the cool mist of the water spraying against my face, and settle into the thin lines that proved I existed, but really never lived

I often felt as if I had lived my life as a shadow, without the emotions that constricts the mind

 Occasionally I would reach out and touch the images of my elusive shadows that lingered around me, in hopes that in that moment I would find herself, to become whole again—what emotion can you touch when your empty spirit has forsaken you?

How can you re-live what is lost?

Oh, the sorrow that is felt when you realize you have moved on without your spirit, like the winding rivers do, never to have stayed long enough to enjoy the beauty they passed through, or stay for the setting

 Minutes always seemed to tick away, and I pass through them, and wait for no one

Play, shadows on the wall, sway to the music that drifts in the air and let me feel alive again

Nails and Rust

Nails and Rust

The windows in the shops on the streets of where she once lived, harbored pieces of her life she had given away for free; the shopkeepers knew not their value, for there they sold for mere pennies

An old silver picture frame that once held the images of the ones she loved, now lying in a box with nails and rust

An antique desk handed down from hands of generations past, and from one of who would never again trace words on paper; now, pushed against a wall covered in trinkets, the deep hues of grain had given up their beauty long ago from lack of care

Her bed once covered in fine linens and lace, sat with legs broken and scarred, abandoned to hold boxes of books and throw-a-ways; it had once been a sanctuary for her to dream

 Smaller, and precious pieces strewn throughout the dust covered shelves and floors, lay helplessly waiting for her return, to rescue them from their misery

She felt her heart breaking over again as she pushed her chaffed hands into the pockets of the overly worn coat she now clung to, and was all she had left; her clothes faded and paper thin, offered little warmth from the cold air that chilled her bones, shoes that encased her feet were battered from the constant roaming from window to window; street to street to revisit the memories of the life she had given away; until they too were gone

 It was sad she knew, of what her life had become, for there had been a time when she had it all, and given all to those of whom she had loved

 She expected nothing in return, the pain in her heart reminded her, nothing was offered, and had been her reward

  Time takes all and leaves little, except perhaps for the trinkets that are left behind, or carelessly thrown into the dust covered boxes filled with nails and rust

Ink and Lead

Ink and Lead

The changing of the times had left her with little; almost destitute

 She searched in vain for a glimpse of the fulfilled life promised to her by unwavering faith; but, only the memories of occasional happiness crept into her heart and mind prodding her to move on

 In her attempt not to forsake them, she kept pieces of her life that held no value to anyone, but her, a piece of cloth cut from the corner of an old handmade dress to remind her from where she had come

  A valued porcelain vase painted with white and yellow flowers, she wrapped  in velvet, and stored it away in a box that one day would be found—relying on faith the finder would understand the cause

 She kept pleading, soulful words written on scraps of paper, jotted down in fading ink and gnawed lead as her life changed over time

 Perhaps someday they would be bound in hard sturdy jackets and protected from a valueless society and the readers of her stories would come to know her, finally placing value on the spirited words written in ink and lead