543 Reads | Published over 5 years ago
She pounces not,
Sadness, in her muted way
waits patiently, for the good things
to die away. For the joy to finish its last ambling
fumbling dances and then, gently, without fuss,
steps into the hallway that is our souls. She warms
herself in the doorway, wipes her feet off on the carpet
and we feel our warmth slipping into her. But mostly we
feel the warmth slipping out of ourselves. Until finally
formless, void and indigo, we cradle ourselves; motherless.
Waiting for another joy to come by and sweep her out again.
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