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Writ 5
May 30, 2017
I couldn't tell you
how she dressed,
how she danced
I couldn't tell you
how she struggled,
how we laughed
I can still hear her screams
of distress
as the mountains moved, as
I bloomed
I got an old jukebox and had it
play
an ounce of music everyday
one for the sores,
the next for air
He saw us standing there
-Where am I headed?
-A place we've dreaded
I've erected a solitary obelisk
in this field of disdain
moving with the breeze
carried along with rampant
gushes of blood and
soul
I didn't mean it
© Samantha D., Southbury, CT
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