As morning's perfection introduces hope for the day, foreboding evil lurks in the wings. Unaffected, they forge through steadily embracing adventure of flight, gliding forcefully ghostly terror unfolds. Within cherished seconds symbolization of Red, White and Blue explodes a profusion of oranges and reds, while life's evanescent fragments scatter against a crisp panorama- fire bursting bright. Surreal horror unfolds as searing buildings slowly collapse, smoky rubble of destruction gently cascades down down down... Billowing haze engulfs the city revealing a haunting raven cloud, the Melting Pot transforms into imposing chaos. Days pass, bewildered divulgence of ghostly reality envelops helpless hearts as quiet spectators observe hellish images scorching distressed brains unraveling demonic atrocities. Digesting unpredictable horror layered with insurmountable pain, with inconceivable tragedy eventuating our world, evil boldly confessing truth. Void of fathomable words to conceptualize cold calculated abhorrence, troubled hearts grasp numbing anesthetics leaving desperation drawn from utter unacceptance. Forever in our hearts and memories....
Linda Balboni 2005
You lie there, solid and firm, as onlookers gawk and comment on how good you turned out. They did such a good job, they whisper, like white plaster thrown on hard walls, you just take it. How you love to hold hands, but not your own, the Rosary Beads d r a p e loosely cross spindly fingers, like drops from tears cried dry. In the bed you made, you lie cold, a hard box unlike the feathery soft mattress you once fell into. Consumed by a lifelong toxic cloud, sucking in, you lie ravaged and still. Oh, but for just one more breath of clean air.
Linda Balboni 2005
So hot the scorch of summer's end, warm breezes scarcely cool the air, a needed cry, the clouds to lend, so hot the scorch of summer's end. Parched vistas thirst and sob to mend on drying leaves damp mists of care, so hot the scorch of summer's end, warm breezes scarcely cool the air.
Linda Balboni 2004
In the caliginous hallway his frail hollowed hand slowly reaches into the stale stench-laden air, as he painstakingly musters every fragment of strength left within. One by one, his worn crooked fingers open wide, dangling unsteady, resembling a withered flower crinkled with time, he wistfully grabs for a handful of nothing. His shadowy mind searches for words to speak, and though barely discernible, he whispers a weak communication while echoes of longing reverberate melancholy sadness scarcely heard by the dead. His stationary body sits alone, soaked in disease, as minutes turn to hours he desperately searches not for a nourishing meal or his last healthy breath. Teardrops trickle down his ashen face as his broken frame surrenders, to one more day absent of a loving touch.
Linda Balboni 2003
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