Clouds, ashy and gaunt
Droplets, limp - cascade, harassing her limbs.
Her conscious wavers.
She hides; curls up.
Fetal.
As she writhes - turning.
And her head - falling.
Like the dead cloud’s tears.
And yet, eyes dry, lips sealed,
With the fate, she still knows not of.
Untold.
Unheard.
Whilst the window pane frosts, unlocked and ajar.
The wind reaching for each bruise and wound.
Biting at the skin, freezing the dripping sorrows.
But somewhere, the nightingale heard.
Graced her and settled,
Onto her laps.
Brought her answers to those whispers,
She had held at her lips.
Feathers brushed against her rib.
She stumbles up.
Numb.
Heavy is her body until she grapples the edge
Of the ebony framed glass.
Still open, hinges far back.
And the nightingale, perched in her gentle hands,
Outstretched over the threshold.
Wings taking flight.
Departing with a warm breeze-
Tracing each line on her face.
And softer than those feathers was her smile.
The apples of her cheeks a dusty rose,
Embracing her eyes.
For thus, the storm had passed once again.
- Riya
» This was one of the first poems I had made and was actually as a gift for a friend who loved poetry as well. However I had lost the original copy and only had half of the poem I had typed up previously. Therefore, I created this one, a blend of the new and old. Although not all the exact words, I chose to kept the same idea of the poem and I think it’s just as raw and visceral as the first.