For What She’s Worth



Fallen, but not discarded.

Her value lies not in her

ability to contain

her chaos within set seams,

clutch remnants when brute tidal

waves beat against her dormers,

but in her audacity

to bloom down in the trenches.


The Stars are Witnesses

Roses tend to be rather less roses this way,

but hailstones, Nature’s Mafia,

convinced you that life would be safer,

more bearable,

cast in the role of ‘Victim in a Puddle’.

You tremble in your cement boots.

Extortion always exacts a price, unequally applied.

Your grip on reality relaxed

and here you lie,

‘She Was a Good Mother’ carved on your tombstone.

Your fall was silent,

a gradual descent into madness,

and only the stars

are witnesses…