I see the questions

  in the weighted, charcoal sky.

The answers whisper to me

  from the soft earth.

I feel the criticisms in the cold wind,

  stinging my face.

Praise falls on me in the raindrops,

  soothing my skin.

I sense them talking about me,

  their betrayal a circle of fire.

My open heart emits forgiveness,

  their weakness something to pity.

Regret is not a pill I wish to swallow,

  nor a brooch to pin upon my coat.

Hope.

Hope is a fragrant flower,

  a blessing,

  a child’s kiss.

The future.

© www.mypastmademe.com 2011