Clouds
There
are many things we only think of,
never giving
voice. Invisible struggles faced
in numb fortitude. Cold blue mornings rife
with a
surprising optimism, streaked out
and diced
with clouds of grey by lunchtime.
Step
inside hands filled to the brim
with
listening, chance a second out.
They say
“get a grip”, I see you slip
away
into any shade of wordless right.
You make
tall between mirrors of hate,
a
negative energy unyielding. Position left
of
field. A meandering river of applause.
The
broadness of the oak line distils breath,
brings
oxygen to your empty fallen places.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 24, 2020
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