Aug 7, 2015
soaked
Fresh pine tainted from the elements gave me a sad feeling as my feet swam in the wet grass.
My hands clumsily collecting what was not spoiled from the storm. Some were bruised and I tasted the bitterness undercutting what was once sweet, and I am not much different.
Fresh pine darkened, it is weak and waterlogged, but I pick up the pieces and pray for splinters to come loose into my fingertips.
That will teach the rain to not fall so hard on my already drenched heart.
It is a sadness enough to lure tears as I simply stop and survey all that has been lost.
And I feel that I am also bruised, that I am also lost, and hoping I will not be overlooked by the right pair of hands.