The colour in your paling face drains onto the cold, marble floor
Slow lines of age crawl onto your face, quick as a sudden crack
In glass. Forgotten dreams and unanswered prayers collect upon
Your paper-like cheeks, like dust on a book pleading to be read.
The whisper poised upon your lips has died waiting to be heard.
As your eyes feel the bitter sting of impending tears, your hands,
Disheveled and calloused, wished that they too were able to cry.
As the world passes by in a hurried flutter of broken wings, they
Pay no attention to the forlorn figure in the quiet corner of the room.
"Won't anyone notice?" you ask of them.
A cold, deafening silence is their reply.
~~
Beginning to find that my words begin to flow onto the paper (or computer screen) more fluidly and smoothly. Not good enough, at least not as good as I want it to be but it is, nonetheless, an encouraging, tiny-little-step-in-the-right-direction kinda thing. I hope u liked it.
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