Deep in the woods in her old house. Weathered with time ivy covered and cold. Torturing all with the whip of its frigid winds, nipping and biting as we trudge along. Gates rusted and broken sway in the wind. As I circle my empty table the bittersweet berries make an orange blaze as I stare at them.
Night comes as the day dies.
My time here marked and counted cannot be long. The cold my enemy loneliness my soulmate. Soon the warm winds will bring my breath and being back to the light of time. Would it talk in a whisper as a soft breeze that bends flowers in a meadow ever so slightly. Copyright 2000 by Athena C. Beauchamp Loneliness Loneliness is a place, a realm of nowhere.