Sophia White Poems

All that there is that is me
Are the words that I write fervidly.
My soul only finds my poor vagrant mind
In the phrases it feverishly pens.
...

His face is a tangle of wrinkles,
But if you follow the crisscrossed lines
You will soon discover a pattern
Like winding roads on a weathered map
...

And here I sit and wonder how to write
Wonder what I have to you impart
If indeed I have within my heart
The knowledge of a way out of this night.
...

All children must grow up. Even me.
What point there is in this I cannot see.
I was happier then, and so very free.
...

Here we sit, in twilight worlds,
Staring at the umber sky.
We wonder at our fates and sigh
At our inability to move.
...

I hear soft footsteps come down the hall and stop at my door.
She’s here once more.
I lean down lower over my studies, eyes riveted to a figure-riddled page.
I hear her breath in the crystal silence, a breath that grips my core
...

The well in the desert is dry, dear.
The well has gone bone dry.
I try – I try – I try –
But the desert by the well is dry, dear.
...

There were thoughts everywhere,
Scrawled on paper napkins
On the backs of old papers
In the corners of books.
...

Who can comprehend? It is too great.
Weep all through the night
Fill the lonesome hours with our tears,
Wonder numbly at the wasted years
...

It is frightening – to be so happy
You can hardly keep from crying.
And even more so, when you find
Joy in inconsequential things,
...