The Echo of Why

51

By scriber1


There on the beach

the young woman writes,

fingers pretending

they touch hope;

finding

as the foam dies

no cheers,

the echo of whys

swinging salty

on sandy rope;

hanging around

wanting to trust

the rust

of near success

to send her back

with the rest,

lost in the joyful crowd

silent

in its pleasure pain.

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