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 is a fragrant flower,
a child’s kiss.
© www.mypastmademe.com 2011