When you have had enough.
Memories pass, not like a soft whisper against my cheek,
but like cold steel through my heart.
Being denied, once again that which I so desperately seek.
A bitter cup, I press it to my lips thirsting to cool my soul,
closing my eyes to its contents.
A wish long remembered to be seen as part of the whole.
Faces before my eyes, the ones I long to love, but am rejected,
not being famed to the same successes.
A failed daughter, sister, and mother, in your eyes seem reflected.
A flower wilting in the on slot of heat, is my hope in ability to please,
fifty one years has it taken.
The realization of unseen performance weakens my trembling knees.
Exhaled declorations like a white flag being flung on the mound.
the time has come to surrender.
Dreaming a magic rainbow, to sweep me away could be found.
Precious is life, yet so precariously throw out like so much trash,
discarded in a ditch.
Beauty so vivid and fragile, turn from blooming to piles of ash.
Yet there is one, his name changes all things, there in no exemption
his love like a healing balm.
Reaching, the soul takes his hand, welcoming loves redemption.
Poetry by Kathryn Walsh
Read 765 times
Written on 2006-07-22 at 08:57
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A Time for Surrendering
A Time for SurrenderingMemories pass, not like a soft whisper against my cheek,
but like cold steel through my heart.
Being denied, once again that which I so desperately seek.
A bitter cup, I press it to my lips thirsting to cool my soul,
closing my eyes to its contents.
A wish long remembered to be seen as part of the whole.
Faces before my eyes, the ones I long to love, but am rejected,
not being famed to the same successes.
A failed daughter, sister, and mother, in your eyes seem reflected.
A flower wilting in the on slot of heat, is my hope in ability to please,
fifty one years has it taken.
The realization of unseen performance weakens my trembling knees.
Exhaled declorations like a white flag being flung on the mound.
the time has come to surrender.
Dreaming a magic rainbow, to sweep me away could be found.
Precious is life, yet so precariously throw out like so much trash,
discarded in a ditch.
Beauty so vivid and fragile, turn from blooming to piles of ash.
Yet there is one, his name changes all things, there in no exemption
his love like a healing balm.
Reaching, the soul takes his hand, welcoming loves redemption.
Poetry by Kathryn Walsh
Read 765 times
Written on 2006-07-22 at 08:57
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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