Heartmire

There’s a girl on a snuggled in street whose eyes droop with sorrow.
There's a house on that street made of rough brick which perfectly matches
the shade of that girl's nose
and eyes as she weeps for a lost soul once dear to her own.
That girl has gone year after year sinking deep
into the grasp of grief.

She lay to stare at the ceiling above her, so bright burning her eyes like a kiln.
She lets her body contort like the girl from a certain 1973 horror film.
She twists and turns with the passing thoughts of the "What ifs” and “Maybe I could haves”.
Silent birds flock far from the home as she screams out a kind of agony unknown to the delicate creatures alas.

“Why can’t I stop the grief?”
The words left the girl’s' lips to bleed.
These words made her feel more than the screeching ones in her head,
but she spoke them so softly. With tired, weary eyes she rose for the first time in hours with limbs of lead.

A stumble out the door
A waltz down cracked, paved road
Less than ten and nothing more
She was at a park for goad

And maybe it wasn’t the swaying on chained swings that calmed her nerves
And maybe it wasn’t the song of the sweet and gentle birds
But maybe it was the kid that played catch with his dad
That made her realize she was missing out on what she had

And maybe it wasn’t the cat that bathed in sun-warmed grass
And maybe it wasn’t the breeze that had leaves in its grasp
But maybe it was the moth that landed on her head
That reminded her that life wasn’t made for the dead

And maybe it wasn’t the chimes that used one another to dance
And maybe it wasn’t the little girl who had ripped mud-stained pants
But maybe it was the shattered watch that now lays with the ants
That made her understand that in this life you have one chance