Departed Limbs.

Earlier, I bathed my spirit
in sunshine that was never earned,
elongating my arms to wave
to strangers and air buzzing
with energy.

Now, I am a branch that scratches
no passersby, because by ten o'clock
the harvest moon is the only eye
clever enough to know
this is when
I am a danger.

I twist until bones are shattered,
until leaves drop dead from my
back and the foliage this ancient
forest once adored is
reduced to depression's
quietus.

The sun doesn't stand up for me,
not before dawn
and so I know emptiness
after being loved for a day.
The night is not as kind...

I should have - could have
spoken words instead of raindrops,
words that act courageously
and form emotional strength.
I could have broken the silent
spell, instead of fracturing
my pain and splitting it
where no one can reconstruct
wholeness.

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Written 4/15/14 @ 10:15 PM