Clouds drape like a shroud
across my visage, arms and legs.
Walking on this windy day is hard
and drags me to the ground
as step by step I pray
for those who hunker down
in homes where danger lays
like hot honey burning the skin,
unable to get away
from the flow of screaming
bullets, bombs, and storms
with names like
warlord, Putin and Ian.
Each step I safely take
is heavy, carrying the pain
of others whom I cannot save.
Simply continuing onward
is all I can handle today,
under the shroud,
too slow and weighted down
to make a difference
or even a smile.
How does one lift up others
when lifting a foot
to go one more step
seems impossible?
Even words are weighted
with unspoken thoughts
too heavy to lift
above the shroud
of a world encased in cloud.
annarino writes 