She was frail as a petal A dandelion in the wind, Sun scorched and drooping As though a weight Hung from her chin- As though no beam Could ever rise her, And no arms could support That limp and weary frame, A stringless puppet Bowed apart. Others held their places

Due to the pain that was worsening in my hands and arms I have been on as much of a writing break as my self control has been able to succeed in. I have of course penned some lines here and there, and this poem was written in fragments, usually

Doubtful hours Proved by wilted flowers When they scattered Petals, like hopes shattered Hours lasting Years, too many, stashing Up with fears too Heavy, petals that grew. There is a face That darkness can’t erase, Though rain obscure, But always it is pure. Stems stark and bare Stand brave, remember

Did you think To put you in a furnace Would not scorch your skin? To come out gold With easy glee And not the surfacing of sin? Or that boiling water hot Would like a warm bath Scathe you not? Like sinking in so comfortably To fire should come easily?

Where does my contentment lie? In what do I most gather peace? In need of nothing, satisfied From endless craving to find release.