This night, I walk within empty echoes
Of waist-deep weary fog, sinking to
The crumbling floor of futility
Dripping minutes bleed through cracked
Rusty hours, as wafting feathers
Of broken rest circle dreams
Devoid of lullabies--
In waning monotone
Pillow smothered murmurs
Cover breath of crushed voices
Not even stealing a skeletal whisper
Past my withered lips.
Michelle Faulkner lives outside Portland, OR, with her husband, her cat Little Miss, and her dogs Mr. Peabody and Sherman. Her work has appeared in The Literary Yard, Alternate Route, Westward Quarterly, Sparks of Calliope and others. She has also been published in two poetry anthologies, PS: It’s Poetry and PS: It’s Still Poetry, both available on Amazon.com, and also in several upcoming anthologies from Poet’s Choice. When not writing, she enjoys true crime shows and watching the Food Network, although does not actually cook.