The flowers still grow
fluorescent against the dismal rain
tiny wailing voices
shut out the splitting, tearing pain.
Trudging withered feet up the mud-slick hill
sheild the wind as I light the last cigarette
sheild me as the flame flickers, sheild me still
I've lost sense of where we're going; the paths have met.
Lightening snaps like a belt against a brick wall
grip my arm, I'm becoming old
I depend on you, and with my all
y-your hand, your hand I hold.
Dampened by the spraying winds
you strike me another match, yes, that's right
the journey for me is near over, Lyndon
and thankyou - thankyou for that light.
A contest entry
- Let Me Tell You... by Abby In Chains..
412 points, ended December 7, 2007, 13 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Tribute to Ron Wiseman, known here as Lyndon. by ecrivain01.
2000 points, ended May 1, 2008, 21 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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This is a marvelous poem ...
and I am sure Lyndon will have to agree with me on that.
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“Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.” -George Iles
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