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Her Doubt
April 15, 2015
Her tight eyes open.
Hands trembling too softly,
woken in the night.
Her lungs beg for air.
Yet, oxygen is too sweet
for her solemn heart.
Be asked food for thought,
her mind is crumbling bread.
No saviour is left.
'His touch is like gold,'
they say. But how can it be?
They've touched him never.
We've yet to see him.
Be his eyes every colour?
Will we ever know?
She lays. And then, looks
outside to see but footprints
in the white of snow.
© Kim B., Marblehead, MA
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This article has 2 comments.
imanauthor BRONZE said...
on Apr. 19 2015 at 7:56 pm
Beautiful. The pauses give a sense of drama, a talent only possessed in few. Great work.
An extended haiku that I've pulled from my mind.