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by Bobbi Sinha-Morey




The Sharp Wind


Maybe I could find the answer

why the past still clings in her

eyes, why her lingering shadow

casts tears on the ground, wishing

she'd light up the sky like she

used to. Maybe the clue will fall

from her hands and she'll sweeten

the time with me like she's done

before. For now all I see is a slim

grey veil whenever she is near

and a helpless feeling inside grows

not knowing how to reach her.

I lay a little note on her pillow

hoping the words will break

through to her when all that is left

is just another day staring at you.

I left only half a prayer on my

windowsill aching for a whisper

from heaven, but soon the limit

on my patience will come to an

end, and when it does I'll turn

my head away from the Almighty

God, let the sharp wind whip

at my window.




a line, (a short blue one)



It's No Surprise


On the black canvas of my dreams

he's no longer there, and I'd give

it my implicit approval that life is

now better, the memory of him now

scattered like stale cigarette ashes,

his whispers of two-faced promises

having evaporated into the air, and

in the thesaurus of hearts he's as vain

as indecision. Sometimes the mist

gives way and I think of how damn

mean he can truly be; he with rarely

a friend in the world except me, and

he with his cruel imputations; it's

no surprise his only other friend is

in the business of swindling people

out of their money and using them.

One morning I summoned my

willpower never to call him again,

wizened by a sound mind and

patience. Lonely, yes, but a sweet

air all around me like rose water





a line, (a short blue one)



Wren Hill


My heart awakes come

the edge of morning when

once again I take my silent,

peaceful walk on Wren Hill,

let the future find me, and

I imagine my spirit like a bird

following the sun, no one nor

nothing to hold me back, only

myself to touch what's already

there. No more coloring

the petals of a white rose with

ash, no more staring fixedly

into a burning taper of wax.

I'll wipe away the shadows

that used to darken my eyes,

cleanse my worn self in

the cool river, let myself

breathe in the warm stillness

of the air and listen to the voice

of the water whisper hold onto

the gentle language of yesterday's

love and never let it leave.



a line, (a blue one)


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