1 minute read
RC deWinter
braille
life is on lockdown not safe to be out or have people in i’m alone with my thoughts for who knows how long
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during this sequestration i see no one but in dreams those i love make regular appearances to
embrace me in their sheltering arms i wake reluctant to leave the only warmth in this cold barren spring
unable to return the touch of love my unsaid words sleep waiting to awake in the hearts meant for them
in that place where nothing need be said only felt in the soft mysterious darkness of bodiless souls
RC deWinter
the bleakness
the lords of the land sit comfortable in their counting houses as we toil in their fields dawn til dark
the happy times some of us remember are myths of memory best not dwelt on
we do not speak of them often recollection is not a comfort but a sword slicing past from present leaving a raw bloody wound in the mind
every so often strangers pass blessing us with smiles of encouragement and perhaps a coin or two before continuing on to whatever better place they’re bound
this small relief fades quickly there’s not enough of this brief kindness to dust our sorry acres with redemption
our children cry for us but we’re too burdened with obligation to walk away and comfort them
better they cry than starve
