She pushes her borrowed cart forward, day’s weight
pressed into the creak of metal and wheel.
Bent spine whispers the burden she carries,
leaning like dusk against her heavy things.
Her lips weave silent conversations, shapeless,
a hymn only the wind might understand.
She shuffles a rhythm too slow for the world,
a two-step meant for surviving, not grace.
Eyes slide away from her fragile orbit,
passersby building walls of brief distraction.
The space she occupies is a thin reminder,
a mirror showing us where we won’t go.
There’s a trembling dignity in her march,
a resolve stitched into her bag-worn hands.
Not all that is stripped away can be lost.
The ground catches the fallen and calls it home.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: November 1st, 2025 05:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
a good write, much enjoyed
Thanks Norman I appreciate your feedback
much deserved
Gray this one draws vivid images in the mind painting not only a picture but a metaphor of life itself. Most lovely it is a fave my friend
Thanks Soren brother
It is my pleasure Gray
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