a little grace …

vicious silk in pomegranate colours on my skin
slips through your sad intentions like
a promise broken, or dew on grass, or
smiles on children’s faces Christmas morn.
there is no answer here.

there is no answer here.

just hands cupped quietly
beneath the mantle of another day
in wait for what might fall.
will it be hope? hate? relentless vice?
or maybe just the rain to wash them clean
from passing indiscretions
carved like deepening lines upon your outstretched palms?

hold them nonetheless, outstretched, and hope
for swirling cyclones of cherry blossoms
to kiss your skin instead.

we all deserve a little grace.

— susan southern-braiden.

( ( ( more of my poetry here … ) ) )

Adventure diva, geek, artist & storyteller. Practitioner of wishcraft. Cooks with visual soul pepper. (You had me at string theory ...)

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