She pounces not

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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