Brightness engulfs that wicked room
where tales were never shared.
Where fears, anxiety,
irreverently unfold within the gloom,
resting concerns upon one’s hands.
There is a quietness which is perturbed
by the stately arrival of glaring white
and unnatural upheaval,
a certain something,
a funk, a stink,
which would bring one to their knees,
into the darkest of thickets,
the tangled thorns, the trees, the thistles.
Do not cry for the moment of lost opportune,
do not grieve, neither mourn,
there is no end, only if wished for soon,
there is nothing worth feeling lost about,
because the presence, she lingers,
lingers in a manner that takes words straight
from awe-struck mouths and fingers.
© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo from Unsplash.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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