Spindle-wrists.

Frail and sickly spindle-wrists
not terminal but still legit
and prone to shaky tremble fits
she'd try to sleep
but never deep
it seems her brain has split
and daily, farther away
and longer her stays
of cemetery shifts
sleeping between little rifts
waiting to be become one of the mists.

Reviews

[Michael X]

great poem kelsey, you have a subtle, awsome way with words and this is sad, yet realistic and I'm sure most people can relate in one way or another, speaksoflife itself, and hope and aspiration,
yet taking into account the darker side of things, awsome job.