By: Noel Burra
I am waiting. Longing. Yearning. For the rain to wet the cracks rippled along my dry lips.
The breeze to sweep the hair brushing against my olive eyes. The sun to ripen the skin on my freckled back.
Who is more benevolent than the soil beneath us? Who is more selfless than the air we breathe.
She is the calm before the storm, and the storm itself. She is the tide that lifts the boats, and the waves that strike against the rocks like soldiers in an army.
She has witnessed both light and dark, held both new and old, and been both lost and found.
Till the day she is no longer there, I am here. Waiting.
Sorrow is the black of a cold winter night, and the call of a feathered raven.
The dread before a farewell.
The tear falling down a cold cheek.
His shadow is impartial, plucking many heads at once.
How might we, as victims, escape his reach?
Only an ember ignited by the power of time will loosen his grip.
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