Upon Winter’s Bough

I do dream, in close, tired shades of hope—yes even hope gets tired, swallowed & silent, as again, we are overwhelmed & slightly broken on the rigours of life. If I scream, but a little louder, will it rouse, like a bird nestled quietly, upon its winter bough, to heave, loud & squawking to flight—chasing the light. Chasing the light. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s