Little Box Of Tears

INK AND QUILL

tears http://www.pinterest.com The echo of the woods,
Plays back against my ears,
A crying wail – of misery resonates, my fears,
And in the canopy of the trees, Silver-Top Ash and White Oak,
Thin breath and shun,
And a garden of sun; chasing shadows, in the fog,
Blue and silent,
The sound drapes,
Frightens – the willy-wag tails,
I follow, the path,
Undiluted by the cries,
Until, I come upon,
A little box,
Of sighs,
Sitting within the leaves,
A girl of twenty and five – Sleeps beside,
Her frail hands shelter the silver chest,
Skin of white ash residues,
Dry eyes – red and pained,
Her face – a myriad of softly falling rain,
To scope her up – carry her away,
Bequeath the woodlands,
Her little box of tears.

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