Violent violet-streaked
acrylic smears of absolution
stain her eyes, her paper skin,
the private walls of inner rooms.
She’s entombed with sad-eyed skeletons—
memorized photographs—
of smiling babes,
too young to spell hypocrisy.
A smoke-colored tendril
flies to her eye;
a long, rippled hand
pushes it back,
silent as gravebeds,
but determined as madmen.
Brushstrokes on bedsheets,
on doorways, kitchen counters,
in shadowy shades of
midnight, crimson, and umber.
Paint-spattered eyes glow
from ceiling fans, mirrors,
floor panels and drawers..
In dying candlelight,
as the moonless night fades
darker still,
she rinses her withered hands
under cool faucet-water,
and for the first time feels
not alone.
Author notes
Do you get it? It's like I can't help but write about WEIRD PEOPLE!! This is the poem I wrote at Archibald Rutledge. Tell me what ya think.
Written May 23rd, 2006
What did you think
Comments
-
This is good Alicia, Im comment more on it when I get home. I love you
Adding your comment: