She Sacrifices For The Dead

Foreigners don’t understand her awkwardness,

Watching as she listens to the birds coo,

Her heart hears the minute sounds of the forgotten ones,

Magical because few people do.

***

She’s one of a kind, not understandable,

Born of a world from both far and near,

She whispers the learned bird songs to the night,

Showing the beauty of all that she hears.

***

Sorrow floods the opening heartbeats,

Empathising with her view of the breezy day,

Those strangers ward themselves as she passes,

Misdemeanours in their memories, all that get in the way.

***

Staging and props cost her the ultimate friendship,

Burrowing in deeper as her pain explodes,

She fortifies her armour, pastes a smile on her face,

Waltzing down the middle of the dusty country roads.

***

When reminded that today is Friday,

I watch as her face crumbles into heartbreak,

And I hear the horror dipped below her tones as she says,

“Friday’s are made for the broken, the destitute, the mistake.”

***

As the echo of her sentence flows into the trees,

A large shadow of bitterness hovers overhead,

She carries on with her narration,

“For this day only, we send sacrifices to the dead.”

***

Can you but imagine my sudden concern,

As I drown in the solemnity of her large brown eyes,

I’m smitten, in awe, adoring of her power and strength,

Knowing from this moment forward, there’ll be no more goodbyes.

If you liked my writing, please click on the small heart underneath, near my name. Or send me a tip and let me know you enjoyed it.

****

Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.

If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.

Originally posted on Medium