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My mother has a little girl who she keeps in tow The little girl has no name At least as far as I know She resembles my mother As she bounces around But I know for sure She’s been put down There she is the inner child Of a woman who never healed I watch
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Is there a contract that I have signed Maybe one that’s left my mind An agreement made with my soul That no matter where I go Those who wander find me near I’m another wanderer to be clear What does one do then Coming from where I’ve been To see a twin flickering by Engulfed
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When pushing the door to my car open the air hit me like a thousand knives. The altitude does make a difference; I forget that sometimes. Instead of rain we were met with snow. It softly fell upon us. Two souls in search of shelter the cover of darkness gave us, seemingly alone in those
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I love the sound of wood creaking. The squeaking and bowing each time you take a step. I am not, however, a fan of hearing the wood moan as I walk beneath large ancient trunks, never meant to sway, as they rock back and forth among the winds above me. I entered this forest with
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Don’t tell me you’re a lover too I fell into a guise Of always being true I thought I had A hold upon myself Until that is I saw myself In someone else
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Small pattering rain drops hit the single paned window as the whooshing noise from the trees outside reverberate and shake this old house. I’ll have to walk two blocks to my car soon, and as always it’s me and the elements. There’s snow on the mountain tops, if you drive up the winding narrow roads
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Oh shit! There I go again Had an emotion Picked up the pen
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I forgot what day it was, but I remember when I climbed the neighbor’s tree when I was ten I remember I pretended to be a fairy As if my dream’s changed, on the contrary I now wish to become forest lore Turn my back on society, slam the door Why can’t I just be
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I love when the trees are bare and the wind whispers threats of turning me into a frozen sculpture of the land. I love the way in which my nose burns and turns red like fire, my lungs fill with shards of glass, like being in the vacuum of space. There I go, fantasizing about
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I have a confession to make. There it was, a shared moment, one that I felt I didn’t deserve. And then, I questioned myself. what if I was being deceived, experiencing a turned hourglass to repeat yet another hour with the same sand. Have I clawed at the dirt covering the grave the old version
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Sharon Rose 