The leaf of a weed
beautiful in death,
or is its life just arrested,
like me in this moment,
petrified by hushed silence,
fingers of fear
melting, wrapping, squeezing?
Ready acceptance of the present,
colors not even yet dulled,
but all I feel is suffocated,
tricked by perfect stillness,
trapped by encroaching cold.
I gaze again at the mystery.
The grip loosens.
A binary constructed
of blood and sweat is
revealed as a lie
swallowed whole
in fear and pride.
The melancholy of winter
stirs souls and whispers
a painful promise of hope.
I Sing My Soul 
Like your poetry Ingrid. Thanks so much for following mine – means a lot and is appreciated! Welcome aboard to whatever spills from my brain, my heart and my soul (whenever it manages to squeeze its way through the others! 🙂 ). Looking forward to more of your poetry so am going to follow you too! 🙂 See you in cyberspace!
Thanks, rob! Appreciate the thoughtful comment! Thanks for the follow back and I look forward to more poetry from you too!
Why are those promises of hope so painful? I’ve often wondered about this. It’s beautiful though. Missing you.
Thanks, sis. I miss youuuuu and I’m so happy that u read my poetry. :))))))
So I just figured out you use the same thing I do for my blog about the boys!! So I just noticed I have notifications when I open the app and its your comments!