Poetry | Journal

Brick and mortar rest,
sharp weapons in dirty hands,
and she’s repairing broken walls she doesn’t remember building.

But something, something moves
closer.
Moving in with dark tides,
the moon pulls closer,
and she’s afraid it won’t like what it sees.
It isn’t pretty she screams.

The grey grit of binding sand drips from the rusted silver shield in her hand as she stands in the harsh fall winds.

Hair tossed in her eyes while she hides past lies choking on the words she cries
out

She’s begging for it to stop.

Each step falls hard,
lead pen to a page,
gripping her chain,
watching hearts break,
papers tear,
regrets fade.

Clouds move over head,
with air chilled cold as her heart, surrounding them, engulfing them.
I warned you, she sighs,
And the tools–weapons–shields,
break apart.