She sits there in her quiet rage, thoughts tumbling through her head. Nothing to say, nothing to speak. For a brief moment vision impaired, throat tight, sting in her eyes then within seconds gone. All that remained, was her figure sitting there in her quiet rage.
She would like to say, that darkness overcome her But it did not. She would like to say that anger became her But it did not. As the striking of the hands moves past Slowly, so slowly she begins to forget.
She is washed over like water to dirt Her heart turning to stone Not forgiving, just forgetting why And so quiet she remains.
An opened wound, it rips and burns She hears the laughter, she hears the yearn And in her quiet rage, she begins to shake And wonder why Yet quiet she still remains.
In her lifetime many stones were thrown, Many words were spoken. Many promises were made And many more were broken. Sad and empty she sits now In her quiet rage, forsaken, broken.
"And who will know, who will notice, when the dust covers the words that were barely spoken; that were laid out for all to find, willing, and open."
tiranaki · Mon Jan 03, 2011 @ 01:58am · 0 Comments |