Make yourself at home. Put your feet up. Grab your favorite beverage and prepare to enjoy the reads.




She stood in the grove 
emptying her heart
into the darkness,
crying out to the trees.

Oh, hear me! Help me!
I am your little child,
a crone before my time.
My youth has been stolen from me
betrayed by the revolutions of the earth
My heart beats only acid through my veins.
like cities choked with carbon dioxide.
I am the desolated forests of the summer fires.
Nothing left but ashes.

Yet, the crone limps away
beneath the moon, tottering...
the pain of over-ripe decline
prematurely stabs
like some ancient soldier
hacking at the enemy
with a heavy sword.

She sits, quietly breathing,
ignoring the pain with resolve.

I smile... talk... laugh with others
and no one knows what is gnawing
like some unseen dragon
crunching my bones.
The physical pain is bearable,
even the searing fire in my veins.
But the pain in my outraged spirit
is wailing and ranting across the galaxies
as it hurls itself further out into the cosmos
searching for peace 
and a shred of hope.


Digital art and poem by Elizabeth Munroz


  1. Very moving. And the digital photo is of you, isn't it. I found the photo slightly haunting ~ sad.

    Jan x

  2. Yes, it is me. And I did want the picture to represent Auntie's sadness about her realization that her youth has left her. I appreciate that you see a haunting quality to it. I can see that now. Thanks.


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