Drifting

 

 

forest

Her shell weighted and dry, mite like irritation upon touch

Wearing her ethusiasm like stained, tattered lace

Squinted sofistication beneath an inferior history

Grotesquely adorned with rusted shackles that hold no key

Eyes drawn with the burden of memory

Flickering affect

 

A gentle hand passing words, supposition of light

Reminded of painted memories of when she once closed her eyes

For a moment her onerous cloak of thoughts drift

A lightness of breath

In the distance she sees it

Happiness

~Alisa Hutton

6 thoughts on “Drifting

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