-Quotidian-
It's hard to fathom a soak'ed face,
brightened by a street light's trace.
Avoiding the alley, tight and dark;
where some, tinned like sardines, stood.
Your pale complexion paled;
to my flour-handed span.
Breaking and re-kneading you again,
the elasticity never the same between us.
And it's hard to fathom a spool of lace,
adorned beside a Hordocks place.
Florid in the woods that show no feet,
the beauty oozing obsolete;
and dressed in ornate pots on desks.
A trophy wife, of unmarried best.
Wither and die, the pot remains the same;
with circular halo still grasped in ones hand.
And it's strange,
the talk of the raven holds no meaning;
even as the last caw recedes,
and the Death Angel trumpets through.
To you, darkness on bough, your voice screaming;
with wild-sorrow, voiced what
my light-less eyes could not.
In the mirror pools of life,
reflections cast a dark wing'ed beast;
the herald of death, pecking dark fruit.
Author notes
By Treagal
A contest entry
- Feel What You Feel by borrowing.moonlight.
300 points, ended April 1, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Enter your last posted poem by whispernthedark.
425 points, ended March 22, 2008, 45 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
Nice write, thank you for entering the contest. Good luck.
♥
whisper
-
i'm not really sure i understood this, to be honest
it seems to hold a lot of meaning
a little long but its a nice write
good luck in my contest
Adding your comment:
