Broken
Winds were blowing gently,
moving the strands of her hair.
No sounds except leaves rustling,
on her face, a blank stare.
Off in the distance, a bark, a howl,
perhaps even a faint scream.
In the wilderness all alone, not afraid,
this is surreal, but not a dream.
In a state of confusion, her mind is
processing in slow motion,
All of the time invested, the love
she gave, the total devotion.
All of it vanished, so many words
left still unspoken,
A void left in her soul, with nothing left
but
a heart, completely broken.moving the strands of her hair.
No sounds except leaves rustling,
on her face, a blank stare.
Off in the distance, a bark, a howl,
perhaps even a faint scream.
In the wilderness all alone, not afraid,
this is surreal, but not a dream.
In a state of confusion, her mind is
processing in slow motion,
All of the time invested, the love
she gave, the total devotion.
All of it vanished, so many words
left still unspoken,
A void left in her soul, with nothing left
B.S. Johnson lives in Georgia with her husband, son and parents. She currently has two books out, Being Kind In An Unkind World, and Maters, Taters & Grits, and has had poems published in The Rusty Nail Magazine and OneFortyFiction.com.
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