Two feet trudge towards the yew tree
Grasses, silver-green in the night, prickling her soles
Looking up, in toes pale and cold,
She whispers a psittacism that sounds like froth
People mock her lunacy
But the moon hears a prayer that no one heeds.
© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.
Illustration by Tang Yau Hoong
Let’s softly sneak in the word whisper. Or shout it. Noun it. Verb it. Slip it an extra letter or two. 🙂
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