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January the Twenty Fifth
February 13, 2016
There's no noise
Distinguishable from the white foam
Except for the scratching of a pen.
Human voices stab through clouds
Exhausted breath brushes against
Chapped lips and the pen slows.
In the din a final voice speaks
And parts the clouds with a soft wave.
Softened eyes gaze upon bleeding ink.
The pen is capped with soft hands.
The blaze of lonely stars is dampened.
And now, sleep comes
In safe arms.
© Courtney R., Great Falls, VA
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I have a lot of mental health issues but my mother always calms me down.