Her Days Poem by Angela R. M. Ferrer

I sit, lie, and eat, delirious to better things
wondering, hopefully wishing, as the only good contrast,
that situation may change, and heart be tamed.
What unpredictability brings, I beg to differ God brings,
for sadness upon sadness, brought only upon choice
that freewill by man, and no one else to blame.
But with wicked, poor hearts, they run to you like savages,
with venemous spears and pointed daggers,
to sweet life you cling, finding salvation from the nearest light,
rope, mountain and even cliff;
to plunge myself to the nearest waters,
to shut off all sounds in that muted universe
to be lost in the belly of the sea.


I conquer not the world, but only myself,
I beseech the woman in the mirror, when light turns night,
to calm her feelings and pour fragrance in her hair.
For the hundred strokes mended by the brush,
a single wish for each loud sigh,
that silent whimper,
covered sob,
diamonds falling,
one true, upturned smile.