Sidestepping the arid thoughts
of these, her every day torments,
she swept the kitchen.
Blue broom pushing yesterdays crumbs
over her threshold, and out onto
the cold cement of another day.
The egg yellow sun crawling
over bland suburban rooftops,
scars her morning with its slanted light.
Its luke warm fingers roaming
her upturned face, exploring the weight
of her world on her shoulders, her slow walk
tender footfalls on unforgiving concrete.
In her head she sees the grasses of a distant plain,
and hears the plaintive notes that have become
her internal soundtrack. Playing on repeat,
looping over and over. An accompaniment
to her search for those rusty keys,
and lost prophets,
Also entered in the thursday think tank for the prompt She
Written for The Sunday Whirl - Wordle 16 (I managed to use all the words.)
This one almost constructed itself. Rather than having an idea to start with, the phrase 'everyday torments' came to mind and I went from there. It wasn't until I got to the end that I figured out 'the story'. Strange isn't it, how some of these just write themselves? Last weeks wordle was amazing in that respect for me. This week, it didn't flow quite so easily and I am not so pleased with the result as last week. But! I AM always pleased to have managed to use all of the wordle words. :-)