Perched like a gazing mourning bird
on a worn, wooden windowsill,
She waits alone at spring's noonday window
Where shadows tiptoe through sun-streaked sheers
Onto tainted tones of creamy lace tablecloths,
Lost in a solace place where
No one knows her,
Where no one can harm her,
Where no one can tell me her who and how to be.
She has learned not to listen to her innermost voices,
whining wiles of their most painful choices.
Time always tells her so,
(Or else she might never know.)
Her God always listens.
Her God always hears,
even in His soulful solemn stillness.
Yet, fate falls deaf upon scarred ears
that can no longer bear to listen
without trickling tender tears of pain
that have held back far too many centuries
of too much trouble in their undoing.
Tears that were always watching and crying,
over an old man's body, time torn and dying,
praying strength to leave, then staying,
emptiness craving pity yet never saying.
Leaving behind his humblest honor.
Living beyond his precious pride.
Drudgery drug him down into a darkened grave
where he remains enslaved deep inside.
Lost in a solemn place where no one knows him,
Where no one can harm him,
Where no one can tell him who and how to be.
~P.S. Colley
Feb. 2025
Cries of the Unheard
March 2025
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