The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Sojourns through currents of sorrow leave us unkempt,
ragged wastrels of thought and dismay unturned
by destinations caused from fury's unthinking demise of dreams.
Old wounds will etch themselves onto new happiness,
if one is not watchful for such things. Darkness craves comfort
from company, be it sociable or not. It pours bitter brew
into parched throats, scattering sustenance to the four winds swirling
around us as we meld into a semblance of slumber,
a strict similarity of shadow.
The bell jar's crystalline structure does not offer sympathy or symphonies,
but dirges of dire dooms. Its dense cavern will not allow songs to arise
from dust, no matter how fervent the efforts to expend its stale air.
It is not meant for reflection, only unraveling despair
upon seeing what lay outside its borders of clarity,
its chaos unbound.