A Dent In The Dirt of A Life Half Lived.

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Her long established frailty
Became cruelly disposed of.

In a world untoward, she was an inconvenient reminder
her story, a failure of many.

I often dream of such an escape
to disappear off the grid
but could I really? Unattached to the digital realm. 

I see painters and roadsters and other damned traits, lost; forgotten…
her life less remarkable.
How often did she dream of escape

solitude,
dank in the darkness
her breath left a warmth
her words trailed into nothing

A musty sleeping bag
a few scraps of cardboard
a dent in the dirt where her body once lay.

A dent in the dirt
of a life half-lived
all because of pain
that could not be extinguished.

There were others
clutching sandwiches
dozing the afternoon away
eyes unblinking
teeth unchattering
legs bent in awkward stances

a day and another
her life ended
their’s bland indifference

Seeking a puff of smoke
a capful of ale
or a dollar for a toothy grin.

A quick hit more tempting
than a lifetime of her love, her thoughts or words,
to warm our breath each night.

Jade Jackson

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