Small view of a silent woman

A poem that sprung, god-like, completely formed from its author’s head.


They want her to say something,
anything.
They think she should speak to someone,
anyone.
She sits
listening to the sound
of her own heart beating,
hears only her own thoughts.
She nurses her pain,
keeps it tightly confined.
Her own private,
very private wound,
still too raw and bleeding
to speak about.
She has no words.
Her silence says enough.


 

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Sweetwater

I like this very much it struck a chord with me. Sue.

Gee

Sometimes the pain is all we have left of something wonderful. Such loss, so perfectly expressed.

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