Her hair smells of wood smoke.
Like her life, a tangle of garden twigs.
The sad-eyes of a worried dog
Which burn in the dark,
Naked and bruised,
The whispers of life’s battleground.
Her home is like her mind:
The worn treads of solitude and the wasted heartbeats,
A capsule of energy
Buffeted by the dizzy swirl of the elements,
And a river of blood
From the lost, the stolen, the fallen.
Hers is the blind gaze of watchful eyes.
The stains of yesterday’s memories echo off the walls of her mind.
A heart drawn by the lure of what might have been
Into the limbo of loss,
And wisps of hope
Amidst the murky waters of someone else’s life.
Vicky Newham © 2015