The tiredness in her brown eyes—like the wind when it sends rhythmic sighs. Like the tides fall and rise. Albeit a photo, merely, I could read it; the sadness, the weariness. So I wrote what I do not have the courage to say—hoping that maybe one day, she will read it. After all, she inspired it. Not everyone who seems content and happy truly is. I don’t follow the idea that our being here is an accident. This piece will also be found in a forthcoming compilation.
Rolling Tide (a short poem for the weary)
Rolling Tide (a short poem for the weary)
Rolling Tide (a short poem for the weary)
The tiredness in her brown eyes—like the wind when it sends rhythmic sighs. Like the tides fall and rise. Albeit a photo, merely, I could read it; the sadness, the weariness. So I wrote what I do not have the courage to say—hoping that maybe one day, she will read it. After all, she inspired it. Not everyone who seems content and happy truly is. I don’t follow the idea that our being here is an accident. This piece will also be found in a forthcoming compilation.