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
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