In A Cold Place

Written for:  The Sunday Whirl, Wordle #338

Words:  hazy, home, earth, rasping, holy, poverty, saint, crazy, frozen, rope, folded, gusts

Poverty entered every fold
of their cold lives, freezing
lines on faces into tight frowns.
Wind gusts whistled

through insufficient insulation.
Even shelved statues of saints
were chipped, making them seem
less holy.

Father’s rasping cough worsened
each day. A hazy film obscured
his eyes. The family felt
the earth had given up

on them; they were at
the end of their rope.
Had the world gone crazy,
was there no hope?

Were they so insignificant
as to be cast aside, lied to by
their government, refused
aid, left to fade from sight?

Low grumbles stumble
about trying to gather
steam. Whispers of a new
day dawning, revolution
in the air.

About purplepeninportland

I am a freelance poet, born and bred in Brooklyn, New York. I live with my husband, John, and two charming rescue dogs–Marion Miller and Murphy. We spent eight lovely years in Portland, OR, but are now back in New York. My goal is to create and share poetry with others who write, or simply enjoy reading poetry. I hope to touch a nerve in you, and feel your sparks as well.
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