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
outside,
it assailed with its fists.
There was the dysphoric storm
inside,
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
understanding.
©August 2020
Christina Anne Hawthorne
The essence of Ontyre captured in images.
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