There is a black woman standing with a hump in her back.
Her dress asking for closure and confidence looses body.
The wrinkles permanently placing a stamp of neglect upon her face,
Her dirty slippers making long hour confessions about forced house duties.
Her cheeks are clenched tight as if she is obligated to smile.
Veins popping out of her hand like microwavable food, irregular bones pointed outward instead of inward, she is unhappy.
The dirt has blended in with her skin, and she can’t tell which is which.
Her eyes, hazel and hollow slowly graduating from the earth.
Deep in a wooded area, the trees on its knees begging for forgiveness, the sun is going away, slowly skating across the sky.
Not a “tweet” or “caw” from a bird in sight.
Just a dull outside that’s wishing its compounds would come to life.
Her house, brown and broken, the door is acknowledging the lack of presence.
The house, abandoned and lonely, reeks of death.
The killing of a soul, one’s freedom and happiness has disappeared.
The woman, bearing invisible shackles has trapped her to the ground, working in the kitchen as if she is a slave.
Yes, her home is near but she’s a long way from home.
When will she return, the answer is unknown.