Poetics by Praxis

Storm-revised 

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands; eyes feel all the coldness.
Words become harsher as I clutch
all the pane and try to regress.Times of happiness and love
seem to never unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.As a child, I am so young,
my parents’ fury and dismay
hits my soul constantly sung
as the leaves outside decay. Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands, eyes try to grasp kindness
outside; the wind carries in its clutch
a leaf letting it fly aimless.

Original post by sfinn2id