They have left her dimly litas a dome light in a dark room
no stirring breath remains in the pixelated remnant
only a faint breeze wafts the dusty laundry on a frayed line and rusty cothespins with a white-knuckled grasp
He never intended this desolation but her emptiness leaves only hope
not only to return but to garner together the s c a t t e r e d intoone
her floorboard screams for love her walls beg them to join on both of her sides
Only then can she be called beautiful and authentic
This is a sermon I have 'poemized' as a goal I set for this year.