wearing his favorite pearl colored suit
he sits next to the marble fireplace
closes his soft white eyelids, entering the holy xanadu
of woman screaming for their lives,
in bleached white dresses and soft as silk hair
tied onto the breaches of hell
heat rising against their skin
soft textured surface burned to scrappy leather
glamourous appearences transformed into skinned witches
they beg for their lives
without words, for their lush lips
shrunken into small cigerette rolls
dripping in crimson liquids,
bleached dresses stained to red...
they dance to Frank Sinatra and listen to the symphony of death
when they're fading, they truly look their best.
Author notes
do you see the picture?
A contest entry
- Art In Words by They Say Shannon.
450 points, ended June 27, 2007, 9 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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Very horrifici. .. nobody can deny that...
such awful things happen, such dreadful things that make me believe this world really is going to an damnable place... -
This is lovely, and really does create a picture out of words. I would suggest to you, to use a different word other than "crimson". Unfortunately it is one of those words that's been done to death. Thank you and good luck
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hmmm, interesting write.. thought provoking, although i'm not sure i see it all... thanks for entering and good luck
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yes! great penmanship! urafinalist!
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"in bleached white dresses and soft as silk hair
tied onto the breaches of hell
heat rising against their skin"
I love this;
I love this type of era/scene.
The whole hollywood glamour, femme-fatale, marilyn monroe type of thing.
[That's what I got from it anyways. Haha.]
You're imagery is done beautifull.
Wonderful job!
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