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?