Opportunities
Fall in
Handfuls of string
That guide you
Home through
Fairy tale forests
Of hidden intentional
Decisions
I sit idle
Watching stands fall
Until human figures
Grow from where
Chances land
Grasping my hand
Leading me
Slowly
Waiting for a reaction
From their
Inticing persuasion
Pondering their thoughts
I was confused where to go
There was much that lied ahead
And many roads behind me
I had started
But not finished.
Fear colored signs
Ended my visits
Forks in the road
But no path in front could sate
My growing curiosity
Of what could have made yesterday
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.