Amy
By brentsrich
Windswept field Golden grain And a child, small Alone She stops, reflects While air moves around her And deep within she wonders "Will there ever be a time In this life In my life When I am not to blame?" A dark cloud appears Returns to this scene Presses down on her Stifles her cries And her thoughts return To that shameless place What's that she hears? The wrapping, knocking Off in the distance "They're building a box for me" She says, Hoping to find rest there Amid the smell of pine Again and again the cloud returns Violates, vanquishes Tears at her soul Nowhere to turn No safety in the tall grass Only the hammering to sustain her With its promise of peace Late at night Sleep permits escape And here, even here The hammer calls to her She wonders, worries Is this the sound of solace, Or the echo of his violence? Closer, she listens Wants, no needs to know Closer she steps 'Til it's not hammering at all But rhythmic knocking at the door She calls in the dark, afraid that it's him Sure that she'll hear his voice Instead She hears her own Frail, distant, calling "It's not your fault" Written September 10th, 2000 © on Jul 23 2001 11:39 PM PST, Rich Brents 0 • 1
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"Windswept field..."