by Rebecca Nestor
I dreamt of bones Scraping against wood-stained red I averted my eyes Ashamed and imperfect, but not dead I bit my tongue to keep the silence And the blood tasted like forgiveness What is His crime To deserve such violence I asked as I stood witness In prayer, He hung His head I asked again, who is this man To which, He simply said I am
Rebecca Nestor is a stay at home mom living in Virginia. She has a passion for creating stories and poetry that feel deeply personal, yet entirely relatable. Her work has appeared in Levitate, Red Weather, Rue Scribe, and Awakenings.