A year is a single white cell
In combat –
bloody, miserable, hurt.
Yet the war has just begun.
A year is a punctuation,
a flick of ink
Barely visible, crucial,
indistinct, indispensable.
A year is twilight,
the corners of shadow,
the shallows of sadness to come
and nothings to experience.
A year is a gray petal
cleaving itself from past and future;
time has lost its meaning.
It flutters aimlessly.
A year is nothing,
does nothing to pain,
goes nowhere from death.
Her weak, bony hands are still in mine.
Advertisements
very powerful!
Thank you.
Lovely poem!
Thanks! For the comment and for dropping by.