Young Writers Project

mother! i cry, captive of the wind

carrying my voice for those to hear who

accept failure is not an option & instead pursue

the package of progress, the patch of promise

a battle cry to be heard, 

tall

and ghostly pale

as if he were drenched in sheer silk 

was what I saw when he left the room, 

leaving behind footprints of moonlight in the halls. 

cool as a winter breeze

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles.