Solitude

A woman who writes during harsh times

Sometimes in passing, I sit and write whilst the day declines it's light upon me.  Candles are lit to pencil my words upon a blank white page. Torn paper from an ole notebook is all I have saved for this fortuity. Impoverishment has left me to only have my thoughts of the wonderful things I know I will not have. I own nothing of such grandness as a grand piano or chintz pillows.

I hold  a yearning for the simple things, like sustaining the breaking of bread, the sip out of a clean cup and to hear giggles from the mouth of babes.These are the things that warm my heart; my heart. 

My candle burns low and leaves my subtle words in a bit of a scribble. A waft of chilly air creeps through my window pane, leaving my fingers too numb to hold the pencil. I wrap myself in the one thing I have left to cherish, a shawl that still holds the scent of lavender from my once flourished garden, that has been beaten from the cold 'n raging winds of winter.

If all I have is a woolen shawl and a worn down pencil to write my pleasures of simplicity, I will cherish every word. What may not mean much to another will always have a place in my heart even if  it is only meant get me through another burden of loss.

This night of an empty space swallows me into darkness. There are days ahead full of blight that my weary heart must endure. My pencil is only a sliver of any hope to speak to anyone who will listen.

If this war ever comes to an end and my faded notes will come to light. I will have shared my desolation with strangers who will be sitting upon fancy furniture and have forgotten the devastation I and so many have endured.