Unheard

I screamed from the bottom of the river valley

I don't trust you

Hoping it would crush the fragile bones of your body

With the same all-encompassing grief

That knocked the sense from me.

Instead, I watched a plane fly across glassy eyes.

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I said it then, in a plain voice, to the treetops.

I don't trust you.

They swayed and cracked, dead limbs falling at my feet.

This time it was the glinting sun that held your eye,

Flashing where my reflection used to dance,

Holding the attention I once had.

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I whispered it to the gurgling creek.

I don't trust you.

But you had already gone.

Slipped out without warning when your attention span

Cracked like the logs the river battered.

The waters rushed, roared, and settled.

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I was left with the silhouette of silence.

The bleak black outline of what I didn't say

Darted through the forest and leapt over the water.

I whispered to the gurgling river

It never does matter what you say.

And it fell quiet too.

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Silver Serpent Books