<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/confess/”>Confess</a>
There is a woman who stares out of windows.
Her frame frail, her hands withered,
She slowly traces the lines
Reflected in the distant misty meadow;
Determined to sketch out phantom figures
And etch them onto the glass.
Her lips mimic the shapes drawn by her fingers.
Words that are mimed but no voice to confess them.
Everyday she repeats this ritual
And everyday her confession sounds no syllable.
There was a woman who stared out of windows.
Her chair sits vacant – waiting patiently for the next individual.
Imojinn 
Beautiful poem! So much to think about!
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Thank you! I spent a lot of time with the elderly at nursing homes in my other life as a care worker. This poem is just a small reflection of that period in my life.
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