Both hands in the pockets
To clasp in the center of palms
The object of her faith
The echo from elsewhere
Solutions from here…
A soft, velvet pebble
Has gone angular and coarse.
As she holds on to it, she had no idea.
It incises fear and lets blood run out.
There is nothing left.
No one left to embrace,
No island to rest.
In the end : nothing outstanding. Nothing unusual.
The mere reminder of solitude ringing louder every time.
Deaf forever now, she has stopped expecting.
©FJ May 2021 – All Rights Reserved
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