Head upon her pillow stretched out in the bed
speaking of the voices that journey through her head.
she wished that they would leave disappear without a trace,
for they took away her brightness that shone upon her face
“Sing a song of troubles, sing a song to mourn,
Cry ye all the people, for trials and ills be born.
Come sorrow, come tears, may they fall as rain,
Scream ye for mercy, scream through the pain.”
“So little the babes born, no breath at all.
Oh shelter people of innocence, lest they fall,”
Sand and ash treasures buried in the dust,
Hair blowing captured by the winds gust.
On her knees now wails of anger, wrath, scorn,
Shards of glass, sky bright, hatred born.
Thunder echoes hilltops, earth rumbles steady,
Arms towards the sky she must be ready.
Knowing not what is to come only it must be,
No longer able to control needing to be free,
Rage burst forth, needing something, anything, release,
And as her scream rocked the earth her heart- felt peace.
Still she lay upon her pillow voices now silent,
No anger, no rage, no longer violent.
What lay in her heart to bring such dreams?
And confusion reigns. She knows not what it means.
© Cynthia Clark