she wouldn't leave the house
bequeathed to childhood horrors
gossamer strands of her hair
flayed out
touching walls
brushing dirty daydreams clean
memory was a quiet blur
beatrice lived in the attic
of her mind
making music out of silence
my neck hurts, was beatrice's daily prayer
mother made a sound deep within her throat
and then, "I know, dear"
papa sighed.
O.
Hi O, I like-a-lot, the look of your journal.
ReplyDeleteAnd your poem is like winter's snow softly
falling and insidious.
Beautifully haunting! Thank you for stopping by my blog and leaving your beautiful words for me. (Hugs)Indigo
ReplyDeletehi ladies:
ReplyDeletethank you, Cynthia
Indigo your entire blog haunts my heart.