Sacrifice isn't always an act of nobility
It can be a way of living
For some people
Who have been conditioned
And persuaded
To believe that the love from others
Comes with the loss of yourself.

Her first words were poetry,
Painting passion into people
like every soul was a self-portrait titled
"Kindness".

As a child she gave each color words that they
could only ever scream,
She gave a voice that flowed like water,
A symphony of dreams.

She grew like fondness,
Towering above us at five foot everything
but forever looking up
like we were the night sky holding starlight in our eyelids
like secrets.

She waits.
Soaking in silence, still
Waiting.
Like the world is whispering
and she's trying to hear it.

Her own whisper floats like falling snow
that melts on your eyelashes
so that it might retrace the steps
of the last tear you cried
just in case,
It's not too late to catch it.

She is a million moments of lightness,
A thousand "I'm sorry's" for the wrongdoings of others.
She is one hundred sleepless nights
of someone else's nightmares,
Kept up with gallons of fresh-ground giving
wanting nothing in return but to know
She means it.

She's got big in her fingertips
like the sun setting and rising into itself,
Until it burns the whole sky down.

She is a quiet presence with an absence
that deafens.
Planting patience into moments
like flowers.
So that you can watch them grow
into a billion brilliant bulbs
of every miss you've ever made,
But were too scared to hope for.

She paints life onto the ordinary
until it knows that it was never anything
but beautiful.

Forever expanding the vocabulary
of the colors she breathed words into
in a children's coloring book
whose lines could Never keep her in.

While the whole world waits,
Just hoping to hear them.

In Arctic stillness, where the whiteness becomes as the sore
a deep call of redemption, her pack alerted to the wind
caution reflect not fear, somewhere a wolf is near
a ravine down below, detects movement a little slow ...

Crunching way down deep, somewhere a wolf comes face to face
with humanity on hunting and little knowledge
survival is the norm, by a bullet and a deadly whim
wilderness is his blood, mankind to such atrocity ...

But bent, it seems, is humanity, on hunting in scared boundary
leaving destruction in their paths, the wolf forgotten again
with mortal animosity, brings sadness that emits a warning
a she wolf brings her flight, the while wolf brings much fright...

Frozen tumble waiting to sink, watches the wolf as her voice will be heard nature adorns her various fur, leaves try to break the incurable fall off in the distance, sings an owl, a turtle lay basking on a pebble bask slowly the wolf sprints over the mask, before swopping to catch the ill fate of the hawk....

So beautiful is the wolf, as she sleeks to and fro
catching the rays of the sun and the darkness of the night'
dusk settles, the horizon becomes orange
as the beauty of the wolf, fades fast to the midnight hues....

Debbie Brooks 2014