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The call

She had been digging

Digging into the cool earth for ages

playing around with soil mimicking sages,

allowing its coolness clothe her skin which needed loosening.

A minute ago, she had been down on the earth low.

Her cheek pressed to the ground as she allowed her tears flow and mingle with it,

the smell of the earth so near so strong,

she tried to push in closer to be closer almost one with it

even though she knew none of that would bring him back.

He was there yet he was gone,

a part of the dust, the part that appeared to have won.

She would soon take the path down to the backyard door,

she called it the death walk, its were they liked to talk

as each step drew her closer to an imminent doom

within the tainted yellow cement bungalow tomb.

It was surprisingly an easy walk maybe because she had done it many times before,

before because it had long been her deep sore.

The floor, it moved, the more she could to the door.

There it stood. Her tomb.

She held the handle of the door, she held the power of her sore.


But when she breathes

There it was again, it wasn’t a whisper, it was a call

the more she resisted, the more it boiled,

pulsating through her hand, pulsating through her core.

Cool breeze gently settling through the cliffs round about her.

Cool so cool so soft, she coughs.

Her insides convulse to refuse the fever, the fever of her loss.

He was gone yet she remained walking these mirages,

their memory halls seemed her constant badges.

Blast these mirages, blast these caged walls.

The time has come for her, no more tears mingled with soil

The time has come for her, she would be a healing oil

The time has come for her, she must answer the call.


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