Witnesses

In his grieving, he still finds time to argue.
One hears the scuff-echo of shoes on flagstone.
Strings of lilac span across my lips and I am frozen in this shroud of amethyst.

The children at the scene
like two glittering gems in the road
unable to move under such circumstance,
continue to witness.

In the face of rage
outside the corners
and deep within the
dark meadow holes
boring into the rich soil
of brain.

©-Sonja J Johnston 25-Aug-2009