unbornbloom

(New poetry weeps,
the earthquakes made
from the wake of a horse hair
quiver.
Taunt and teased across
the stressed soul,
and she makes again.)

Creeping into the eyes of
people passing by they
look shallowly
before sliding away.
They dont stare long.
It means too much to see
into the eyes that hold
So steadily. It means to much
to capture a glimpse of
the sad that sits within,
and her mind reels out
rhymes she will never write
as they just keep passing,
Seeing,
Never asking.

Shes just a drop of rain,
touching, drying,
never recalled
and never named
with any independent
difference to the other
lost souls, slipping around
on the slick tar streets.

A foot fall.
the boots recall,
as they cut into her heels
the hands that gave.
The arms that never saved.
The faces that feathered into
slivers of sullen semblance-
The memory as music notes.
Not recalled,
singularly experienced,
without a name.