Old Terrors

Like the wilted petals of an orchid

My face betrays the grief of losses.

Roots wound deep eat pebbles

Yet, thrives sucking the last drop of hope left.

Flutters my left eye unabashed

Like a butterfly’s petite wings

Hoping to rise high, yet stumbling

Wings too weak to lift a heart, 

So dead and mourning.

Dreaming to be a writer someday

Scribbling a line or two everyday

Too scared not knowing

How to bind fragmented thoughts

I keep going back to old bookshelves

Breathing in the terror of old wars,

Well fought and won with glory.