Writing

Mountains made of icy sand, 

The sun peers down onto the land. 

A mirror casted upon the ground, 

As winter silences every sound. 

In my Gram's kitchen,

behind the table,

there is a butter barrel.

One of those big wooden ones you would use in the 1950's.

5 summers ago,

my brother made butter in that barrel.

Whispers so cruel flood the news,

Filling many hearts with fear. 

Some listen to only what they want to hear. 

Their denial leaves a black and blue bruise. 

    The last time I saw Her.  It feels so much more final to say it that way, but I guess it’s the same outcome either way.  When I think about it logically, I can understand that She’s never coming

Blind the jury. Blind the voters. 

Wrap white fabric over their eyes, stuff white cotton in their ears. Make them as blind and deaf as Justice herself. 

Thunder roared in the dark night sky, lightning the only source of light. Rain fell hard onto the roof like bullets, screams of terror throughout the city.