70% [poem]

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

for them

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.