-A blog is something private, and then again it is not, it is something shared, a moment or a thought, it need not be read by any to be needed by just one, this is my diary, my journal... this is my blog.-
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Saturday, October 01, 2005 ...she was haggard taking a seat on the empty bench. There wouldn't be a bus by here again tonight. Swaying back and forth to the music that played in her mind. It mattered not if anyone approached or was near by watching, all that mattered to her was gone. There was nothing but the silence and a shell once called a body. Her gaunt, wrinkled fingers moved in the air, her boney wrists delicately floating, moving along the invisible keys. The old worn coat did its job in breaking the wind tonight but off with it and quickly removing the ribbon that held her long grey hair in place. Not another soul would hear what was making her stand, causing her to move, and twirl in her drawn, dingy yellow chiffon, with her messy hair tangling around her neck. She heard the sorrow that homed itself within. On she danced with tired, scuffed shoes and torn nylons rolled to her ankles. There was not a smile, there was not charm, she simply moved to be moving, she moved to forget until her mind was as blank as the picture being created with the non existing canvas, never really appearing, the visions, the notes simply flurried away.
Copyrighted 2005 Cynthia E. Jones
Labels: poetry
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