Last Sunday in March, a poem

Overcast, grayness sticks to the sky; white dirtied by the rain, lurking, threatening to burst.

Sun struggles to reappear.

I Know Why:

Heaped together strung like imperfectly corded beads, my days slip and scatter to the ground; tapping far off is the thought hidden that dispatches those rude awakenings that all is not well on the outside of the cocoon in which I have sequestered myself.

Ordered pair:

Never existed, except in geometry.

Disorder is the caveat that has to be simply accepted.

Slope downhill from here accelerated by lack of energy.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022


monochrome photo of dark hallway
Photo by Adrien Olichon on


That moment, the moment you seeped into my soul like poison,

an injection of you.

You shone like a multifaceted jewel, smooth like velvet spilling into velvety darkness.

I, I needed an anchor in the darkness, and you were what reached for me.

And I knowing better reached back.


when it feels too late,

I recoil from the sting.


I am.

Your shadow hovers like impending death.


I am and I don’t know how to free myself.

Copyright 2019 (original copyright 2009). Jenny W. Andrews. All rights reserved.