Atlantic Hope has wrapped up, and although doing moulage again was satisfying, med problems and stress have put me back into depression. Here’s a poem:
I am a mote of dust in a sunbeam,
a whisper lost in a hurricane gale,
a child fallen down a well in the woods,
an old woman freezing to death at a bus stop.
I am the scene on the cutting room floor,
the news that doesn’t fit the narrative,
the character edited out of the story.
I am a mote of dust in a sunbeam.
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