~ qbit 
Again, city of the dead,
where there are no words
for higher ground.

Young girls have come, 
hair still wet and tangled
from unstill river arms –

turn and spin and down and darkness, 
until lungs confess their air,
breathe in prayers of water. 

Silent, as they must be.
Simply, without fear, 
as they must be.

Among the living, no words
for child, name, voice.
We drown in broken promises.

For Shay’s Word Garden

13 thoughts on “”

  1. This poem hits the heart – those girls with wet and tangled hair…….not just broken promises, but betrayal, by those in charge who have no clue what they are doing. Wonderful writing, qbit. Really good.

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