an artist, never made for soldiering

After worst of weeks she put an end

to all her rum•pa•pum•pumming.



The tell-tale catatonic stare betrayed

an ocean swelling inside of her.



Time to rest the heart and stop the mind.

The wise and old familiar chair

stuffed with words to comfort her.



Poor dear... she's an artist, you see,

and was never made for soldiering.

Misfit toys sometimes get annoyed

with wounds and endless wandering.



No more fighting.

No more thinking.

An end to swan's song singing.



Just trust

and rest

your weeping head

on feathers friends are bringing.


~ Susan J. Preston