She sat with the storm raging deep inside her chest,
fingers twisting the hem of her dress until it nearly tore,
the clock on the wall ticking slow and loud in the silence,
the words she needed to say piling up heavy on her tongue,
her heart slamming against her ribs like a bird trapped in glass.
Beneath the Stable Rafters She walked with purpose down the stone-carved halls of her father’s keep,her silk robes brushing against
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Poetry
Hollow Commands They speak of dominance yet flinch at true strength,fearing submissives who stand without fear.They want obedience wrapped in
They say good things are too good,
as if goodness must always come
wrapped in suspicion, tied tight with fear.
A gift we hesitate to open,
our hands shaking,
waiting for the explosion of imperfection
to burst through the seams.
Too Good To Be True Read More »
Poetry
Your trust in me is not given lightly,
it is a sacred bond, built over time,
and I am humbled by the way you offer it.
In your submission, you give me a piece of your soul,
allowing me to hold it with care and responsibility.
I drove five hours through the spine of Ontario,
two lanes humming like an old Hip song,
the sky pressing low, waiting to exhale,
Bobcaygeon awaits like some half-remembered dream,
a town know for a melody, lit by a myth.
I stood by the water where Gord must have stood,
where the past drapes itself over rooftops and docks,
and I waited for the stars to reveal themselves,
not hypothetical, not dull, not lost to the city’s haze,
but sharp as a whispered truth, rising one by one.
