The Wounded Sky

No birds or angels fly
across the wounded sky
storm clouds holding onto years
of unshed tears
clothe the sky in swirling grey
the edges fray
tearing a hole in the dark membrane
a spreading stain
of sunlight pools upon the ground
hope is found
struggling up on tattered wings
it sweetly sings

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Pouring Out

You break down all my defences

I don’t know how you do that

or is it that I let you?

Emotion gathers like high tide

surging over all barriers

flooding my face with

unstoppable tears

that mingle with the rain

as I pour out a deluge

of the forbidden

and the unknowable,

the secret festering truths

that stop my breath,

drowning, heaving, gasping,

I look to the rushing clouds

and for a moment I see

that high beyond the storm

the sky is blue.

 

(Image from Pixabay)

Tenderly

tenderly

She doesn’t ask for gratitude

she doesn’t ask for recognition

she bears all our sorrow

so tenderly

with no harsh word

of blame or judgement

she wipes away our childish tears

and hushes our weeping

with a gentle touch

she carries each of us

in her heart

knowing our pain

and weakness

reaching a hand

to steady us

when we stumble

loving our vulnerability

while we sleep

she gathers the tears

from our lashes

to wash the hate

from our souls

so that one day

we too may fly.