Her words
ran dry,
thoughts stirred
inside,
unheard,
denied,
preferred
to die.
Always
reshaped,
if they
escaped,
all days
were shamed,
dark grays
held claim.
Raindrops
fell down,
to stop
her frown,
and flop
around,
light crops
once found.
Her tales
came back,
details
in stacks,
no fails
or acts,
prevails,
on track.
– Grace Y. Estevez – Reddy