Rachel Hughes Poems

Some religions teach that a women

Is property owned by a man.
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Please be kind

All the scriptures and oracles of God,
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About an hour and a half before Christmas eve.
My mother was laying on a hospital bed in my living room.
Unable to breathe.
The Dr. said she had pancreas cancer and covid 19.
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Sorrow is like a scorched and desolate land.

Barren and dry built on sinking sands.
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Sometimes in my life.

I feel I'm only hanging by a thread.
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To those who like to jig.

Grab your tackle box and rig.
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We build walls around ourselves.

Hiding behind them in hope they won't fall.
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I can have wine sit on the table untouched all month long.

Until my neighbor comes over.
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Eye's they are the window to the soul,
The interior of the inner person, they show.
They reveal what lies inside.
Whether there is light, love or life, or darkness, hatred or pride.
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Once my heart was ripped at every seem.

And buried in a graveyard made of broken dreams.
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