User Review( votes)
written by: Julia R. DeStefano
From breakfast to lunch through nightmare, I trudge along -
here I sleep, here I cry in a barren landscape -
my hands empty in this division of parts,
lonely for something to touch -
fingers to dance with mine
in hunger that I own.
These days are a drag.
Whisper that you love me -
words floating on the breeze to meet my ears, my lips -
carried along rays of sunlight,
the comforts of moonlight
to land in my aching heart.
I am a prematurely closed volume,
forced onto a shelf too small.
A woman wondering how God could sleep through this
as she awaits hope to swim back to her.
Dreaming of love like a life jacket -
a blanket to be swathed and soothed within.
Unafraid to admit fear in this, the Devil’s playpen,
where there are far too many unknowns that scald.
To whatever’s pulling the marionette strings of My America-
take from me my lot of possessions,
these things I have only pretended to own.
Chisel away at my mind, body, and soul if you must.
But don’t take our capacity for touch -
my salvation from quicksand.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
There’s an element of "prolonged social distancing" that we’re not yet discussing, but we will: the loneliness epidemic — and I’ll wager that it’s equally as deadly to the human body, mind, and spirit. This is when we learn what we value, who we cannot be without, and who or what we need to move towards in order to maintain truth in a Twilight Zone-d reality. I pray that one of those things is me.