Beneath the Rubble

Beneath the Rubble Unfinished artwork waits on the shelf, Hidden between dark pages, Scribbles on paper long to be free. As a lover waits, it too waits, For the breath of life, Seasons pass without promise. In the womb’s dark, an embryo craves, Nourishment, life’s blood, “Edit me,” it cries, “Color me crimson.” Forget not, A story to be told, A poem promised, Longing. The sun’s rays cascade through the leaded windowpane, You wake to the quiet space, Between thought and being, A stirring deep within the heart. You pause, reach for the notebook, Blow off the dust, Gently turn the page, Hope. Pen in hand, Flesh exposed. Red blood appears, Life. A sigh of relief, The long-lost lover arrives.