Message Poem by Danette Frenz

Writing a message ought to be easy,
telling each other our hearts desire,
pouring out our innermost thoughts.

But as time passes by, my hand is still.
Inside, a heart is silent.
The papers bunched up in sheets of crumble.

The dark tree rise upon the horizon
None of this matters to us. Everything doesn’t show how
in this exquisite loneliness by oneself.

It is hard to write,
once so freely and truly,
now so stark and inhibited.