The Widow’s Mite

When there is nothing left to give…grief becomes the order of the day.

There are times that stifle words.

Choke the warmth, smother the need,
so great the deeds, so deep the damage,
to try to verbalise is futile.
One can only pray seasons,
maturity and deep introspection
will earn rewards not yet apparent
from this vantage.

Were our differences only contained.
Perhaps in time, mutual understanding?
Not drip-fed to a new generation
to wreak mayhem and insecurity
on fragile, trusting minds,
when all there ever was,
underneath all our chaos,

was love.

© stormwolf 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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Isn’t it amazing how that last word inspires so many impressions from our pens. Your poem inspired deep, deep feelings right to the core of my belly. I felt it, and I can’t think of a better accolade to your work than to tell you that. Blessings, Allen x


A great sense of sadness and, perhaps, as you say, emptiness in this one, Alison. It sort of mirrors the sad, pensive look of the photo. Don’t quite understand ‘… only pray seasons, contributions’ but, perhaps that’s just me.

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