PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Perhaps on this day

you chose the fruitwood bench

because it faced the far side

of nothing.

The lady who sat next to you

was cross-legged with intent.

Her hair was black and coiled

and dripped with apathy.

Her face was a certain

punctuaion mark

that I couldn't recall just then.

A period. I'm sure of that now.

You could smell the fear

that I hid in my pockets

just moments before.

I careened my way

towards the salt of your tears.

There were no questions to be answered

or words to be heard.

Just the shock of one emotion

cutting through the air.

I was destined to walk through

those doors

and ignore the man

who was manning the desk.

I was destined to feel

the eyes and the ears

and the drafts from the

wrinkled bodies

who walked the halls.

And on this day,

I was destined to fail

as a daughter.

Although it stood with me

"the best I could" never exited my body.

It was

like sap from a maple tree

like nails peirced half-way through

like an exit wound.

I brushed on the surface of things.

I could not heed the warnings.

After jabbing what seemed to be

words at the woman who

fell victim to your cause,

I returned to you.

I did.

I returned to you.

Your cheeks deflected

what little light was left outside

and your arms were quivering

right off your body.

I saw them fall to the ground

and roll next to your feet

which were next to my father's.

There was no blood.

Or stench.

There was nothing obvious

or relenting.

After a few moments

I began looking for another bench,

one made of blackened iron,

scorching.

But then I realized

the sun was already dying.