Under purple skies, she sits, she sings
Low winds carry her voice, her echo
Tomorrow tells yesterday’s old stories
Impossible dreams crushed like broken glass
Memories claw like branches
on the bedroom window pane
Alerting the sleeping mind to horrors outside
Tomorrows nightmares arrive early
Entering the subconscious, they grow,
Slowly waiting for the day they bloom…
©AnitaDawes2022
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