Grace
You float between the air of life
And the fire of death.
You are omniscient, always there, always knowing
There are questions awaiting answers, that you hold with a key wrapped around your little finger. You may never answer.
Grace, I ask; will I ever meet you? That is the name you inhabit, like a house of brick and mortar, or straw or sticks - please don’t blow down.
Grace, I ask; what will you look like? You always have golden tresses, a mane of mystery that
Glimmers, so bright I can barely see you
Please don’t look into the sun.
Grace, I ask; who will you be? One day we may write together, intertwining the words of two generations, a braid of lyrics to which we can sing our own tune.
Please don’t try to please me, I just need the truth.
Grace, I ask; will you ever be mine?
There is no image of you now, just the murky grey of uncertainty the future on a precipice.
About the Author:
Holly Peckitt is a PhD Candidate from Manchester, UK. Studying Creative Writing at Bangor University, Wales, she has previously had work published in Black Bough, Evocations Review and In Parentheses Magazine. When she's not writing, you can find her thinking about trees or dogs.
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