The storm is coming,
Or perhaps it already came,
Leaving a path of destruction
And carrying her fears with it.
The purple bruises
And welts heal slowly as the days turn,
But the broken bottles,
Scattered on the floor,
Are shattered like their memories,
And can never be fixed,
Or re-built.
The winds pick up again.
He knows a cold front is coming,
But this time,
She smiles.
She will be carried with the storm
And never return.
Author notes
http://fredh.deviantart.com/art/Wind-55493717
A contest entry
- The Four Elements by Metaphorist.
600 points, ended December 17, 2007, 18 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
There's a lot of hurt in this piece so I thank you for giving me some hope in the last stanza. Very nicely done.
Thanks for entering.
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