Our hands barely grace the smooth, cold presence of the glass,

lost in windows, lost in sunlight

that bears no more meaning to us

as we gaze at the flowers on our windowsills

empty dining rooms, empty kitchens

afternoon light graces the table

a strange, serene, empty room

with echoes bouncing off the walls

Will we soon find answers to the dust that builds in the corners?

In the shadows that litter our hallways,

the sleep that pricks our eyelids

or the tireless nights with only the moon as our companion

Will we ever find peace in our loneliness again?

Only our regrets to tear at our minds

the past begins to rise in sour memory

thoughts begin to be bittersweet

and we wait for the doors to open for us

Maybe the glass we touch can be shared between others

we gaze at the same flowers

the same moon is left as our companion

and our human spirit reaches for another to share our loneliness

Within the shadows,

under the dust-covered shelves,

we find the secret hidden in lonely houses,

We are together in isolation.

Our hands barely grace the smooth, cold presence of the glass,

lost in windows, lost in sunlight

that bears no more meaning to us

as we gaze at the flowers on our windowsills

empty dining rooms, empty kitchens

afternoon light graces the table

a strange, serene, empty room

with echoes bouncing off the walls

Will we soon find answers to the dust that builds in the corners?

In the shadows that litter our hallways,

the sleep that pricks our eyelids

or the tireless nights with only the moon as our companion

Will we ever find peace in our loneliness again?

Only our regrets to tear at our minds

the past begins to rise in sour memory

thoughts begin to be bittersweet

and we wait for the doors to open for us

Maybe the glass we touch can be shared between others

we gaze at the same flowers

the same moon is left as our companion

and our human spirit reaches for another to share our loneliness

Within the shadows,

under the dust-covered shelves,

we find the secret hidden in lonely houses,

We are together in isolation.

She spent every day at his grave. Sweet sobs escaped her lips, barely heard over the sounds of chirping birds and singing grasshoppers. The grass was a bright green that reflected the burning yellow of the sun. A summer breeze swept through the trees and left a mess of pine needles on the forest ground. His grave was upon a hill, a clearing in a dense wilderness that lasted for miles. She knelt there at the top of it and let her tears fall upon the short blades of grass that now covered the rich soil of his resting place. This was a ritual that she beheld, a daily practice that could last for minutes, or for hours. She didn't care how long she was made victim to the blazing sun, or the longing and sullen moon. Perhaps the nights were easier, when the grass became a soft mint and the breeze became more of a wind. At least then she could feel him in the stars and her tears were not dried so quickly by the heat.

Once she had had her time, she would make the long trek home, walking through the hills and through the forest, her hands brushing against the gentle wildflowers. Her face would be red and her eyes would be strained, but she didn't care. It was a price that she didn't mind paying. She would get to her little cottage at the edge of the woods. The flowers in her garden were wilted. The house was dusty and dirt littered the floors. She would eat and drink and sleep. The sun would rise once again, showering her home with light. She would wake up, eat, drink, and walk to his grave again. She did this faithfully and she didn't have to know why. Perhaps it was the voice in her head that told her she would take it back somehow. Maybe it was even the thought that a higher power would take pity in her tears and lift her grief. It didn't matter to her, whether it was a power or forgiveness, she was wiling to give up her life to lay down on his unmarked resting place. Something in her may have even thought that her tears could be powerful, so she gave them to him. Could his sprit hear her pain? Would he love her enough to end her pain?

She didn't care if it was death or a sudden change if heart that lifted her from this grief. She knew something would end the cycle, and she believed it would be a blessing for her loyalty. One day this blessing would take form, suddenly lifting her spirit from this familiar countryside. So, she walked and walked. Her legs ached and her shoulders screamed. She carried flowers for him that day and her basket proved to be heavier than expected. But she was loyal, and she came to him with her heart wide open. She heaved herself up to his place on the hill. The flowers were planted around the grave by her rough and muddied hands. They were sunflowers mostly, that was what grew this time of year. They were beautiful and joyful gifts compared to what grief laid behind her eyes. Hours passed and her flowers were planted. Her basket was empty and her fingernails were caked with dirt. She sat at his grave. She sobbed again, hot tears fell down her reddened cheeks. They landed onto the soil silently and sunk below to his remains. The sun was setting and she was tired. She wanted to stay, so she laid down against the soft grass. A gentle breeze swooped down and dried her tears. The moon rose over the hill, an army of stars following behind it. Sleep covered her eyes and she was no longer there. Her spirit was lifted as promised, but her fragile body was left behind, hidden in the flowers, faithfull guarding his grave.

Tears trail down her bright red cheek

as she walks through the silent crowd.

They stare at her for the answers they seek,

but don't realize they can never be said out loud.

Dirty glares and raging stares

light a fire in her eyes.

She walks past them without a care,

and leaves them to their beloved lies.

She knows that there is something deep

and lights flicker above her head.

She never needed their belief,

most are appalled by what she's said.

Her words of wisdom are often ignored,

no one wants to believe.

She lets misconception be where it's stored,

she knows it's something they can't concieve.

False accusations litter her life,

the lights blink harder.

She doesn't let them cause her strife.

She knows what she is only makes her smarter.

Let the doubt crawl in.

Call her witch, call her enchantress.

She never wished any harm.

Her only goal is to heal.

She's sworn to defend others

from the dark that settles behind you.

She protects you like a mother

and she really doesn't mind to.

But for those who point fingers,

those who doubt her capability,

there will be no assistance,

there will be no protection from the dark.

Her light will be used somewhere else

and she will prevail.

She has little time

for those who claim she'll fail.

But be wary of her presence nonbeliever,

see the lights blink at your demise.

Never underestimate the power,

of the light that burns in her eyes.

My most valued piece of writing is my first and only book. It took me about two years to write, and it was what kept me going during the harder parts of the school year. As a young writer, this book is the beginning of a future of writing that will be pursued as a career. It is what made me so excited to share what I create, and I take pride in how much work I put into it.

Her hands touch natures' sunken cheek

Gracing its weathered skin

She holds it as if it were

A dying child

What was once a vibrant green

Becomes a withered gray

What was once an array of beauty

Becomes a broken and twisted mess

She pleads for what she has to stay

She begs for what once was to return

Smoke fills gray and clouded skies

Covering her in a veil of emptiness

The grass where she sits is gone

There is only uncovered soil

The water that she drank is toxic

Filled with waste and death

She sits with the broken green

Huddled in her weakened arms

And there she weeps

A lost and forgotten mother