The fountain of youth is a murky pond
Fed by deep springs of optimism
Where no one dares to swim
Doubting toes splash at the shoreline
Mouths turned down like fingernail moons
A nervous frog leaps,
Still, the ripple marks the flesh.
Hard to believe this young poet is barely eighteen years old.
by Miranda Krase
This skeletal figure dances in the dark shadows of the night.
Trapped. Waiting for her partner,
She dances in hopes of his return,
Content to be waiting forevermore.
…And waiting she shall remain.
A faithful wife to a dead life,
A future now no more.
I don’t have the heart,
To look upon her brokenness,
Her empty face, same as mine.
An ever flowing river,
Comes from our skeleton eyes.
If only I could tell her the truth,
It won’t save her…
But could it save me?