A penny
cast aside on long strips of wood
polished, smooth
Alone, her shine is unnoticed
A fluff of dust
lay atop her ridges
hiding her etched beauty
Passersby never notice
Looking for something more
she is no longer enough
only a Penny
In a world of dollars.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Shadow
A car whizzed by, splashing water up onto her tattered jacket. The faded green darkened as the dirty puddle water seeped into her core, causing her to shiver. She peered up at the clock tower, barely visible in the heavy mist. A deep sigh escaped her tiny lips.
She reached up and tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her little ear, dragging dampness across her pallid cheek. Pulling her hood forward again, as it was much too big for her tiny frame and kept slipping back, she set off in the direction of the tower.
There was a bridge, like an archway, that carried pedestrians across the river. As she approached this bridge, a feeling of dread weighed down her already heavy boots. She trudged along the dingy street.
A figure hovered near the base of the bridge. She could not see its face, but she knew it was an old man. He was crying. The tears were not visible; it was more in his posture, the way he moved. The air seemed to grow even more dense, and it was as if she were underwater now, for the fog was so thick. The man's silhouette was so blurred that he now appeared more like a ghost, a shadow, than a man.
He glided closer and closer to the water's edge. The figure paused, as if hesitating, thinking. She watched with a weighted heart, wanting to call out to him. Finding control of her muscles once more, she stomped towards the figure, reaching out to him, trying desperately to utter some sound, but the air was so thick that it suppressed her efforts with ease. The figure shook with sobs.
In an instant, the figure was gone. An outline of a shadow floated down the river. Only she saw it. All other passersby simply grasped their umbrellas, heads down, unaware. She shed a tear for this lonely shadow. The clock tower 's bell pierced through the fog like needles. It shrieked twelve times, then only echoes were left to fill the now empty space under the bridge.
She reached up and tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her little ear, dragging dampness across her pallid cheek. Pulling her hood forward again, as it was much too big for her tiny frame and kept slipping back, she set off in the direction of the tower.
There was a bridge, like an archway, that carried pedestrians across the river. As she approached this bridge, a feeling of dread weighed down her already heavy boots. She trudged along the dingy street.
A figure hovered near the base of the bridge. She could not see its face, but she knew it was an old man. He was crying. The tears were not visible; it was more in his posture, the way he moved. The air seemed to grow even more dense, and it was as if she were underwater now, for the fog was so thick. The man's silhouette was so blurred that he now appeared more like a ghost, a shadow, than a man.
He glided closer and closer to the water's edge. The figure paused, as if hesitating, thinking. She watched with a weighted heart, wanting to call out to him. Finding control of her muscles once more, she stomped towards the figure, reaching out to him, trying desperately to utter some sound, but the air was so thick that it suppressed her efforts with ease. The figure shook with sobs.
In an instant, the figure was gone. An outline of a shadow floated down the river. Only she saw it. All other passersby simply grasped their umbrellas, heads down, unaware. She shed a tear for this lonely shadow. The clock tower 's bell pierced through the fog like needles. It shrieked twelve times, then only echoes were left to fill the now empty space under the bridge.
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