What should become of them?
All these fragile white fallen things.
While matted feathers stick to the dew,
of bright morning blades of grass.
Their gaping mouths talk to the depths,
screaming insecurities into his ears.
Sharpened hands close tight around mine,
begging for sympathetic fingertips.
As soft warm eyes squirm in their skulls,
oozing liquid vivid onto tiny faces.
Should I pick them up before they die,
then throw them back into the air?
Though what goes up, must come down,
so maybe then, their better off on the ground.
A contest entry
- A Wordplay Poetry Contest by -BlackKnight-.
600 points, ended June 9, 2008, 38 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - A Cold Night by cut13roses.
600 points, ended October 12, 2008, 17 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Critique is wonderful.
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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the name of this write is very pretty. it seems beautiful only because it has the word 'heaven' in it. but the words spoken in this write is different.. it seems your more talking about death then anything of beauty.
your write had a very different thought to what i thought it would be like. and thats why i liked it..
well done..
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"so maybe then, their better off on the ground." -- Also, "their" should be "they're".
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"While matted feathers stick to the dew" -- Is "while" supposed to be "white"?
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"Slip".
"Sharpened hands close tight around mine,
begging for sympathetic fingertips.
As soft warm eyes squirm in their skulls,
oozing liquid vivid onto tiny faces." -- mmmmm, love the imagery. Good stuff. -
Hmmmmmm.... Drift or slip maybe? I'm not sure.
Interesting imagery. This was different. Well worded. Thanks for entering.
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