Broken Many
Broken many, the child has waited for a soft hand to help her stand.
How lost must she be before someone looks beyond their fables and storybooks?
Or how many tears flood these grounds before her true voice is heard?
Her gait and heart atrophied in this isolation.
How have these hours and weeks passed, you ask?
Like years, decades even, like a precocious death.
Light dims and the air tastes colder, bitter and her center --
That atrophied heart you may more accurately say -- became heavier in the shadows.
Broken many, with countless abandoning, with each mockery and shaming word,
With the strikes and blows that crushed her head in, kicked when already down, bleeding from her soul.
They say follow it, her heart. They say.
Yet do they not see it has become hardened and brittle, a millstone?
Her heart only knows the disgrace that the world has shown her to be.
As this darkness has grown and all lights fade, she no longer carries a warm living dream.
Hope is the albatross, the burden, that will shatter the fallow heart.
None of it runs through her veins anymore. Love neglected, a burden too.
And why move when you see nowhere to go?
The early arrival of death, the unmet presumption of release,
Smiles at her like the embrace of a contrite mother.
Why longer wait for another salve and the soft hand to move her?
A poem by Solveig (May 2024)
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