Catharsis
A steadfast gust from the slamming of the door
grazed the terrain of her peach forearm
Her tiny chestnut hairs stood tall as
the ancient oak tree towering over their backyard
Signs of spring were blossoming
While a once euphoric state withered around her
Plucking any stimulus from her diminishing being
Tears dangled on end
of her spider-clumped lashes
She faught their release
for the journey down her visage
would only confirm his twisted exposition
How could the beholder of guilt
Be the bearer of insult
He could accuse of her unfounded infidelity
Well knowing his conscience was faulty
April rain purifies a soiled seed
Instilling deep within her
the catalyst for new being
A worthy blossom she is
and wither she will not
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