She dons a robe of silence
leaving the burn-pile of love.
Reviewing her life-spread maps,
embers spiraling down, she notes
the junctures, the choices, hears again
the crack of bets flung at reality’s walls.
Well past being tripped up looking back,
she knows how solitude vases the rose stems
of unspoken needs. Pushing face first
into sandpaper wind, her dream
of flying brought down to wishbones
snapped short. Her gaze reaches inside
the forest’s quivers of moon-light.
~ Charles F. Thielman
Born and raised in Charleston, SC, Charles F. Thielman has worked as a youth corrections counselor, a truck driver, and a city bus driver. His poems have appeared in a number of magazines, including Poetry Salzburg and The Pedestal.
Featured artwork by Babar Moghal.