Suffocated by loneliness
my thought-cherries
never fully ripen.
They sprout like raisins
packed in a tiny red box
on an effortless crusade
for the shelter
of another hole in the ground.
Content with the promise of nothing
I ride the mysterious noises
outside my window
like winged unicorns
hoping that the stories I make up
surpass the truth
without ever going outside
to question
why it always seems to smell
of blood.
Author notes
a "slaughterhouse" life
In a list
A contest entry
- My opinion about honesty. by Naridill.
900 points, ended May 22, 2008, 5 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Ah. Very nice inspiration. I have been inside a Slaughter House and I daresay it neither smells nor looks like Bacon. But this piece, as it stands.. shows a tragic yet imagery filled sense.
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