weep not for the women wearing their whims
on wrists of wind and water
weak and washed over, wondering where the dime goes
what a waste
worry not for the wives wrapped in wine and woolen words
wary and wading wider into woe, walking wistfully
wed not the wandering widows
wheeling well through the warmth
wicked and wasted and wise and whimsical
wrong not the wallowing witches
wretched, willing, welcoming, and warring
waiting for the whisper, “whimper
if you have to”
what a waste
when we wither
we will want for nothing
we the whimpering women
wild and westbound and wholehearted and worthless
weeping wider behind the windshield
white-lipped and withholding
we will be worshipping winter and the wheat
weightless
when god comes
x bren
The Junction Journal 