Her Life

Courtesy: Pixabay

She felt it all,
each gentle current
and buffeting wind,
for she was in a fragile place
while dying.

There was the raging storm
it assailed with its fists.
There was the dysphoric storm
it clawed at her skin for release.

She was
while she wasn’t.

She was the tree cut,
its sap running,
its soul dying
before it’d ever grown,
a tree’s tears,
a child’s fears,
when there should have been

©August 2020
Christina Anne Hawthorne


About Christina Anne Hawthorne

Alive and well in the Rocky Mountains. I'm a fantasy writer who also dabbles in poetry, short stories, and map making. My Ontyre tales are an alternative fantasy experience, the stories rich in mystery, adventure, and romance. Alternative fantasy? Not quite steampunk. Not quite gothic. In truth, the real magic is in those who discover what's within.
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