Mercy quotes

while strangers prepared their graves.

Like distant eyes across a table.

Glasses clinking on hardwood shelves.

“her eyes are blood shot, colors lose their luster in time”

and mercy waited on a dirty park bench, smelling the forest fire,

she had started.

Screeching tires, gravel skidding, pavement heat burning eyes,

43 strangers had stood in line never making eye contact.

Words are better said in text by cold machines.

isolation supplies bitter and silent comforts.

Mercy sat in the morning, watching her breath,

“i am frost.”

embers in her forest fire die.

Distorted window pains, traffic documentations.

As strangers avoid eye contact out side the dentist office.

The distant humming traffic like waves on a shoreline.

“A stained handkerchief in a thrift store coat pocket?”

Mercy rolled her eyes, ripping the pages from a

novel.

The forest floor creaked under foot steps

the sun glared into cold eyes.

matchbox rhythm schemes in an old coat pocket.

“you can be free as ash in the wind.

set fire to the one thing you love”

mercy whispers.

(this is old but i feel like it belongs here.)