The Summer of Youth
Brilliant green and blue, the colors
of summer and youth.
The smell of fresh cut grass and the soft purr of traffic,
The sweet breeze gently stirs my golden hair.
The air feels alive, a living object that
radiates and sparkles with its own energy.
Sometimes a stranger to myself,
I am growing up yet still so young.
Running through the silky grass, collapsing into a fit of giggles,
I lie on my back, staring straight up at the pure sky,
Imagining what was to be,
All that was to come.
The sky darkens.
It is suffocating, heavy
I cannot breathe.
My thoughts swirl like the angry sea.
Torrents and rapids
What should I have done?
What should I have said?
Throbbing and crashing
Visions of you give me peace
You are the quiet after the storm.
The Quiet after Death has Come
All is quiet now, for Death has come.
Floating through a sea of strained smiles and teary eyes,
I stand next to the small, flower-framed box,
by the frail shell of all that she was.
A mother, a friend, a wife.
Someone who laughed.
Someone who cried.
Someone who cherished her life.
Tears are shed, embraces are given freely.
Apologies are hummed and
best wishes are whispered warmly.
Yet when all is over and all is done,
the quiet only remains.
The quiet after Death has come.